


God help me, I do

by PlainJane



Series: John Watson's way [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate narrative, Anal Beads, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst and Humor, Bottom!Sherlock, Dating, Developing Relationship, Divorce, Engagement, Established Relationship, Family, Fencing, Fluff, Jealous!Sherlock, John Watson POV, Love, M/M, Nipple Play, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Pregnancy, Remembrance Day, Rimming, Sexual Content, True Love, Violence, Wedding, bottom!John, dark!Sherlock, friends - Freeform, hero!John, injured!Sherlock, sex on a plane, top!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 90,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A consulting detective, two doctors, a forensic pathologist, a DI, a senior citizen, a recovering alcoholic and the British government walk into a register office...</p><p>John and Sherlock have resolved to be together as much more than just colleagues or friends, but how will their relationship change between the proposal and the wedding? Follow along as they learn about themselves and about each other. How will they share their news with those closest to them? How will John adjust to the reality of being in a relationship with a man instead of a woman? How will they both find time and space for personal and professional lives? And how will Sherlock cope with the intensity of true love? Cases, chuckles, angst and lots of good loving on the journey to one very unconventional wedding day.</p><p>Sequel to As long as it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first day of the rest of our lives

**Author's Note:**

> This is a not-at-all necessary fluff/smut sequel that picks up where _As long as it takes_ leaves off (probably should read that first so it makes sense). This will be a series of vignettes showing the development of our boys’ relationship and counting down to the Holmes-Watson “wedding”. Not too trail blazing, I know, but along with some familiar themes will be some (I hope) original ideas. I’m working on several scenes, but if you have anything you would love to see, add it in the comments and I will try to accommodate if I can. This is basically a relationship/character study from John’s POV. Not all chapters will merit the rating, but some definitely will. I own nothing; my only profit is pleasure.

_Proposal + 00:40:00_

“I don’t have anything to give you,” John started cautiously, rubbing the platinum band on his ring finger. He was settled in his chair, working on a second cup of tea. “I would like to, though. If that’s something you want.” Honestly, he’d never seen Sherlock wear any accessory other than his watch.

“Ah, but you do,” Sherlock replied from behind him. He was, quite unusually, fixing his own coffee. And gathering a handful of biscuits.

“What?”

“Have something to give me.” Sherlock returned from the kitchen and sat at his desk, flipping his laptop open.

John suppressed a shudder as he watched Sherlock take a sip of what he knew was his preferred, sickeningly sweet, industrial-strength coffee. “I—no, I don’t. At least I don’t think I do. Did you find something while you were rummaging through my things?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Haven’t done that in ages.”

John took a sip of tea. “But you know I have a ring to give you.”

“I didn’t say it was a ring, did I?”

John looked heavenward, waiting. Sherlock ignored him. “Sherlock.”

“It’s something you used to wear every day. Something eloquent, that speaks of the man you are and the life you lived before we met. Something that speaks of your commitment, loyalty and resolve,” Sherlock continued. “Something with your name on it.”

John gaped, stunned by the depth of feeling inherent in the request and the fact that it had come from _his_ Sherlock. “You want to wear my dog tags?”

“Eminently practical given the things I tend to do with my hands.”

John’s sigh was genuine and resigned: _that_ sounded more like his Sherlock. “You know there’s no rule says you have to wear anything at all, especially something so sentimental."

The man waved a hand dismissively as he chased a bite of chocolate HobNob with another mouthful of coffee. “While I may not fully grasp the intricacies of relationships, I am aware the modern custom is for both partners to wear such emblems. I think this is an elegant solution, don’t you?”

Sherlock turned toward him, looking incredibly smug. John couldn’t help but smile—today he could forgive the gorgeous git just about anything. He set his tea down and stood.

“All right, then.”

John made his way up to his room and dug the box he kept his tags in out of his old footlocker. He ran a thumb over the plain black cardboard then looked at the Holmes family heirloom now on his hand. He wished there wasn’t such a disparity between the tokens, but couldn’t help but be chuffed that Sherlock wanted to wear something so intimate.

As John made his way down the stairs, clutching the black box in his hand, he could hear Sherlock’s voice echoing up towards him. “…looks very promising. What do you think?”

He reached the lower landing and padded toward the door with amusement.

“John?”

“Wasn’t in the room, love,” he said lightly as he made his way back to the desk. “You’ll have to start at the beginning.”

Sherlock looked up, blinking. “The beginning?”

“I was upstairs.” John waggled the box in front of him. “Go on, then. Tell me about the case.”

Sherlock looked pleased, turning the laptop so John could see the photos that had been sent along with the email. “Missing fortune of a recently deceased media tycoon. No surviving relations—all earmarked for charity. A Mr. Littleton writes on behalf of the firm representing the estate.”

“Right,” John said. He stood beside Sherlock, his own body at a right angle to the man in the chair. He leaned his abdomen against Sherlock as an arm snaked around him. It was easy, natural—as though John had always stood this close and Sherlock had always held him tight, caressing one hip with his thumb. John opened the box and set it on the desk, pulling the chain free. “So how can the money be missing? Isn’t it in a bank or a trust or something?”

“Was. Should be. But not anymore.” Sherlock pointed to the photos. “This is the bank where the bulk of the liquidated assets were housed. The senior executives are with the police, there by the door. They and the employees have all been investigated—thus far, no leads. A variety of stocks and bonds had been kept in a safe deposit box…”

Sherlock trailed off, concentrating. John inclined the dark head toward him slightly and slipped the chain over it. He dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s temple and smoothed a hand quickly over the chest where the small metal plates now lay.

He wasn’t at all certain Sherlock had noticed until the man’s free hand slipped up to clasp the dog tags in a tight fist.

“Oh,” Sherlock said suddenly, sounding very disappointed. “No, never mind. It was the bank manager. She’s his niece. Boring.”

“I thought you said there were no surviving relations.”

“She was disinherited six, no, seven years ago. Faked a suicide by…drowning…and established a new identity.”

“So not dead.”

“Not as such, no.”

John smiled to himself as Sherlock released him to pick up his phone. He turned and made his way to the kitchen.

He noted happily that Mrs. Hudson had brought the paper up, though she’d left it in the kitchen near the bin—not her usual place. He grabbed the Weetabix box from the shelf, his stomach suddenly reminding him that while he’d not eaten in quite some time, he _had_ been unusually active. He retrieved a bowl, deposited two biscuits into it and turned to the refrigerator.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“Thank you.”

 

_Proposal + 04:15:00_

“I don’t care what they _call_ it. Why can’t we do it _today_?”

John was sat on the sofa, eating a sandwich, watching as Sherlock paced in front of the window working himself into a proper snit.

The presentation of John’s dog tags had preceded a delightful, quiet, surprisingly uneventful morning. John had finished his breakfast and the paper before seeing to the sheets in the wash. Sherlock had disappeared for a long shower and returned in his dressing gown and pyjamas. John—still in his robe—had decided this was a wholly appropriate dress code for the day and had gone to change before installing himself in his chair to catch up on his BMJ reading, while Sherlock busied himself with an experiment involving the tongues from the refrigerator.

When Mycroft rang, offering congratulations and wishing to know when the blessed event might occur, the discussion commenced about what, exactly, their new jewellery was going to mean.

It was not going well.

“I’ve told you,” John repeated patiently, between bites of cheese and pickle. “Even if we were ready, which we’re not, we can’t just turn up at the register office today and get married or…partnered. There’s a process and it takes time. We have to give notice and then there’s a waiting period.” He reflected for a moment. “I take it this means your knowledge of our judicial system doesn’t include family law?”

“ _Why_ aren’t we ready?” Sherlock rounded on him. “We live together. Now we are sleeping together. We’ve been friends for years, and we are very compatible. I fail to see in what way we are not as prepared for this as anyone else.”

“It has nothing to do with being more or less prepared than anyone else. It’s about us. We’ve only just started…this. We need time to adjust.” John set his lunch down. “You’ve spent most of your life avoiding attachments—aren’t you the least bit concerned about the impact our new relationship might have on the work?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock drew himself up, setting his jaw. “I have managed to solve quite a number of cases since…you know.”

 _Since I realized I was in love with you_ , John filled in mentally. “And?”

“And this morning demonstrated that sexual activity can lead to clarity under the right circumstances.”

“I see. So you’re saying—now correct me if I’ve got this wrong—in one night you have eliminated every one of the objections you had to the idea of forming emotional connections with people. Objections that kept you single and essentially friendless for 30-odd years, not to mention mostly celibate.”

Sherlock’s nose twitched and he crossed his arms. “Yes.”

“Sherlock, I may not have your observational skills, but I do know a load of cobblers when I hear it.”

“But I don’t want to wait!”

“Neither do I, but we don’t really have a choice. And that’s probably for the best. You’ll just have to trust me. This is not your area, remember?”

“Well, I’m not entirely certain it’s your area either. _Divorced_ , remember?”

“Oi!”

Sherlock marched over and flopped into his chair, digging his bare toes into the carpet. “You know what I mean.”

John shook his head. “Fine. Ask Lestrade. He’s been married a long time. He’ll tell you.”

“You think I should solicit relationship advice from a man married to a serial adulterer.”

“Well, ask someone else then. I’m telling you, Sherlock: we need some time.” John wiped his hands and put his napkin on the plate. “And—since you’ve brought it up—there is the matter of my divorce, as well.”

“What about it?”

“We’ll need the decree absolute before we can get married."

“And?” Sherlock mimicked.

John shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “It’s just taking a bit longer than I thought it would.”

“Your divorce is not complete?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Not, exa—there’s—well, no.” John sighed. “Look, it’s well in hand. I filed the petition ages ago; Mary just didn’t respond by the deadline. She’s probably mislaid the letter. The solicitor will sort it.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this _first_?”

“Because we’ll have it by the time we’re ready.”

“But technically, at the moment, you are not free?”

“Not _technically_ , but as good as,” John defended, studying the crumbs on the plate in front of him.

“I see. You’re telling me I’ve just shagged a married man.”

“Oh, don’t be...” John looked up and spotted the traces of pleased interest on his lover’s face. “Fine. _Technically_ , yes, you’ve just debauched a married man. Satisfied?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock regarded John for some time. “So we are not getting married. Or forming a partnership or whatever it is.”

“Just not _today_.”

“When?”

“Not long, love. I promise.”

“John…”

“Let’s just see how we get on, all right?” John hesitated. Sherlock was quiet, but his fingers were drumming relentlessly against the leather chair. “What’s worrying you?”

“I cannot be without you John. Not now.” Sherlock looked away, drawing his knees up on to the chair and wrapping his arms around them. “You will change your mind.”

“No,” John said, the words coming out more sharply than he intended. He stood and crossed to Sherlock’s chair, dropping to his knees in front of it. He tugged at Sherlock’s legs until he uncurled them and set his feet back on the floor on either side of John.

John leaned in and cradled Sherlock’s jaw and turned the man to face him. “Nothing is going to change my mind about this. I’ve loved you for a very long time. I just didn’t know how much. Now I do—I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”

Sherlock assessed him, the keen eyes taking in every detail. “But I am difficult, rude, petulant, unerringly selfish, thoughtless, compulsive and reckless—these are not my own observations, they are direct quotations. I am, as you yourself have pointed out, an ‘annoying dick’.”

“Yes,” John agreed with a smile. “But did I say I didn’t like it?” He stroked a cheekbone with his thumb. “You promised to try; I promise, too. This is not a test, Sherlock. This is a good opportunity for us to spend some time just being in love and looking forward to the next bit.”

Sherlock looked down at John’s other hand now resting on his thigh. Sherlock stroked over the knuckles. “So we wait.”

“Just for a while.”

Sherlock released a heavy breath. “Until then we are, what—boyfriends? No, sorry, that’s ridiculous. And I’m not calling you my lover in public. ”

“Strictly speaking, I’m your fiancé, being as we’re engaged.” John noted Sherlock’s look of disdain. “Which can be quite fun, actually. People will be wanting to throw us parties and buy us drinks.” He paused, watching as Sherlock’s mouth turned down. “And we can have sex anywhere we want.”

“You’ve just made up that last bit.”

John chuckled, pulling Sherlock down toward him and stretching up to place a kiss on the pale brow. “I promise you, I will make the wait worth your while.”

Sherlock slid forward and dipped one hand under John’s sleep shirt, dragging his palm over the flesh beneath. “You really shouldn’t say things like that to _me_.”

John brushed a soft kiss over Sherlock’s lips. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“You taste like pickle,” Sherlock mused, nibbling at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you mind?”

“Nnnnnno.”

“Good.” John slanted his mouth over Sherlock’s, leisurely dragging his tongue over the seam of Sherlock’s lips until they parted. He delved within, lapping at the sweetness of Sherlock’s mouth. The detective’s tongue responded, dancing over and around John’s, lips parting, meeting, and parting again.

Sherlock’s hand slithered up from John’s abdomen, stroking and tugging at his nipples. John leaned in to the caress.

“John, how sore…”

John dropped his hand into Sherlock’s lap and made quick work of the drawstring at his waist. He tugged it loose and slid his hand beneath the soft cotton jersey. “Not too sore for this.”

Sherlock sighed as John’s fist closed around him.

“Like that?” John whispered the question into the ear he was tracing with the tip of his tongue. He stroked Sherlock’s cock firmly, feeling the flesh fill under his touch as he did. His own erection was beginning to tent his soft pyjama bottoms. He dropped his free hand to palm himself with a moan.

Sherlock grabbed at the hand with a deep, throaty sound of protest. “That’s mine.”

John pulled back and they stared at one another, breath short. Finally Sherlock moved. In a flurry of navy silk, he had grasped John around the waist with one arm and carried them both to the floor. John clung to Sherlock’s shoulders as they landed heavily, in spite of Sherlock’s efforts to catch most of their weight with his knees and free hand. John managed to untangle his legs, relishing the feeling of being pinned beneath his lover’s frame.

“Want to feel you. Hurry.” He reached down to tug insistently at Sherlock’s loose trousers until the fabric began to slide over slender hips. Sherlock obliged, lifting his weight to allow John to drag them down over his thighs. Sherlock kicked them free and quickly shifted to straddle John’s hips.

John captured the nape of Sherlock’s neck and drew the lush mouth back to his own. Sherlock ground his naked cock against the thin fabric still covering John as they kissed. John stroked up under the silk dressing gown and light t-shirt to touch the smooth skin of Sherlock’s back. He traced the sinuous spine curled over him, groaning into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock pulled back, surveying John beneath him. John was sure he looked exactly as he felt—flushed, love-drugged and needy.

“I love you,” John whispered.

Sherlock’s smile was gratified, confident. He tugged at the cotton of John’s sleeping pants until they sat below his hips. John’s erection sprang free; Sherlock captured it immediately, teasing the slit with his thumb. His breath caught just a little as he regarded the swollen member in his hand.

“John…”

He dropped another hard kiss on John’s mouth before rotating his pelvis down into John's. He leaned over and anchored one hand on the floor above John’s shoulder, turning his free hand to John and holding the palm expectantly toward him; John obliged by grabbing his wrist and dragging the hand to his mouth. He sucked the fingers between his lips and then laved the palm with his tongue.

John held his lover’s gaze as he slicked his hand—Sherlock was rocking, pressing them together where they both most needed to be touched. After a few moments, he sat back and pulled the damp hand away from John’s mouth, wrapping it around both their erections.

“Sherlock—oh, god, love, yes.”

Sherlock groaned as he rubbed their cocks together at the heads, dragging soft keening noises from John at the stimulation of the sensitive bundle of nerves on the underside against Sherlock’s hot, pulsing erection. Sherlock slid his fingers between and over and around their cocks, and began to stroke them together.

John watched, entranced, as his lover’s eyes drifted closed. Sherlock’s hand moved hard and fast, using the semi-lubricated flesh to improve friction. He tugged and dragged, intermittently teasing the heads against each other.

John reached down to help. He joined his hand to Sherlock’s and tightened their grip.

Sherlock cried out, his head thrown back. John reached out and locked their free hands together, lacing the fingers and holding fast. He couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t stop looking at the man above him.

Sherlock was generally attractive, in an unconventional way, but during sex? He was fucking unbelievable. The tousled hair that John could barely keep his fingers out of bounced with the movement of their bodies; his soft, full, bottom lip was caught between his teeth. The sinful cheekbones were flushed and his brow began to glisten with perspiration as he worked to bring them both off.

John groaned—a deep, hard, desperate groan that came from the deepest recesses of his body. “Oh, love. Yes, fuck, yes.”

Their hands continued to pump as they rocked into each other. Sherlock’s eyes drifted open and he looked down at John. Their eyes were still locked long minutes later when John finally began to weaken. 

“Close,” he muttered. “So close.”

Sherlock slid a finger over the tip of John’s cock. “Come.”

The heat and tension that had been coiling in his belly peaked and John arched as the wave washed over him. “Sherlock—love you so much.”

Sherlock panted, continuing to stroke hard as John rode out his release. He leaned in over John and began to fuck their hands, straining for his own.

His body shuddered as he finally came, spilling out over their hands, their cocks and their bellies, adding to the puddle of white John had already deposited there.

Slowly, Sherlock began to sag as his body relaxed. John braced him with their joined hands, lowering him to his chest. He wrapped both arms around his lover and rolled them until they were side by side. He stroked Sherlock’s back silently.

Sherlock gazed at him, eyes still dark. “I don’t think I mind being engaged.”

 

_Proposal + 07:30:00_

“Whoo-hoo!”

John started awake at the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s voice. _Bollocks._

“In here, Mrs. H,” John replied, trying to keep his voice down. He quickly surveyed his position—there was no time to fix it.

John dropped his head back and sighed. At least it would save him the trouble of having to explain to their landlady why it would be best if she didn’t pop in too unexpectedly from now on.

“John, dear,” she called as she entered through the kitchen. “I’ve—oh!”

Mrs. Hudson stopped where she was, two fingers pressed against her lips, taking in the sight of John stretched out on the sofa with a lap full of sleeping Sherlock. Sherlock’s head rested on John’s chest and John still had one hand tangled in the dark curls. They were both wearing only pants and robes; fortunately the blanket covering them was pulled up to Sherlock’s shoulders.

After their discussion about the engagement, and the orgasm that had followed, they’d talked about going out on a proper date to celebrate the end of the case and their own new beginnings. But after a shared shower, Sherlock had started yawning and John had known they wouldn’t make it out of the flat. He hadn’t been tired at the time, so he’d turned on some crap telly and pulled Sherlock into a warm puddle on the sofa, where they’d been ever since.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Mrs. Hudson whispered.

“Not to worry, Mrs. H.” John pulled the remote out from between the cushions and switched the television off. “We’re just, uh, taking a nap. Sherlock’s at the end of one of his long stretches of hardly sleeping.”

Sherlock muttered something in his sleep and grabbed John’s forearm before settling again with a deep sigh.

Mrs. Hudson smiled with a twinkle in her eye. “Of course, dear.”

John cleared his throat. “Was there something you needed?”

“Oh, just to let you know I’m having a builder in to look at the cracks in the plaster on your bedroom ceiling. He’ll be here tomorrow, so after that you may have to sleep somewhere else for a night or two.”

The dear woman could barely conceal her mirth as John nodded. “Sure, fine, yeah. Not a problem. I’ll just kip here…” He glanced out in front of him at the dead weight of the unconscious man sprawled over him and the sofa.

Mrs. Hudson stepped close and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. John looked up at her; unable to conceal the happiness he was sure had to be radiating from him.

She patted his cheek with affection and gave him a wink. “I’m sure you’ll find somewhere more comfortable.”

She walked to the door and paused, turning back, her whisper slightly louder. “Oh, and I popped in this morning with the newspaper after I heard Sherlock leaving. I hope you don’t mind, but I spotted the mess by his desk so I thought I’d just tidy up. In the future, if you could ask him to wipe up the coffee before it dries, that would be ever so helpful. Makes it so much easier to get the stain out of the carpet.” She paused. “Shame, really. It was a lovely cup—commemorative for the royal wedding.”

John bit down on the silly grin that threatened. He just couldn’t think about the “l think we should fuck” mug having smiling Windsor faces on it.

“I’m off out. Is there anything you need?”

“Would you mind terribly getting us some biscuits?” John asked hesitantly. He didn’t like to abuse her generosity (Sherlock did enough of that for both of them) but…“Sherlock finished the last of ours today.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll bring them up later.” She smirked. “Or perhaps I should just leave them on the landing?”

John blushed a little and made a noncommittal noise. He could hear her tittering as she made her way down the stairs.

Sherlock moaned in his sleep and shifted. John flinched as a bony hip dug into his thigh. He slid his leg sideways, out of the way, effectively easing some of the weight off of the still-sensitive parts of his body. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“John?” The voice was groggy, sleep-softened.

“It’s all right, love. Go back to sleep,” John soothed. He felt his own body easing back into slumber and cuddled down into Sherlock’s warmth with a yawn. “I’ll be right here when you need me.”


	2. Papa's got a brand new bag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John ventures out to work, bumps into an old friend and attempts to figure out how to explain that 1) everything has changed, 2) yet stayed the same, and 3) that's why he has the goofy expression on his face. Naturally, it all becomes much more complicated when Sherlock turns up.

“John!”

John spun at the sound of his name echoing in the Royal London Hospital corridor. He turned to see Mike Stamford hurrying toward him.

“Mike! I didn’t expect to see you.” John shook the outstretched hand. “Didn’t you just get in yesterday?”

“Two o’clock in the bloody morning. Supposed to arrive at three in the afternoon—tropical storm watch or something. Delayed every flight out of Florida.” The heavier man sighed, scratching at his tropical tan. “Then I get home to a message about an emergency Bart’s and London budget meeting this morning.”

“Sorry, mate,” John chuckled, turning to continue toward the elevators. “But better you than me.”

“Oh, ta. Thanks very much,” Mike scoffed, keeping pace with John. “I’ll remember that when it comes time to review staffing, shall I?” He rapped John’s arm with his meeting notes.

“You know I have the utmost respect for what you do,” John teased. He came to a stop and punched the down button for the elevator in front of them.

Mike sighed again. “I wish I did. Bloody boring. Four hours and we’re no closer to a solution than we were when we started. I should have stayed with teaching.” He smiled and tried to look cheerful. “Never mind. I realized you were working today, so I thought I would see if you were free for lunch. Heading down now, are you?”

“On my way,” John agreed. The elevator arrived and he gestured for Mike to enter ahead of him.

“I gather you’re not picking up shifts at A&E anymore?”

“No extra time these days,” John acknowledged. “Just the trauma unit.”

“They’re lucky to have you.”

John stepped in behind him. The doors slid closed with a beep. “Thanks to you, they do. If you hadn’t suggested redoing my specialty training, I’m not sure what I’d be up to now.”

Mike shrugged. “It seemed like a good transition: combat surgeon to trauma doc. And you were at loose ends after… well, it was a good time for a fresh start.”

John nodded, trying not think back on the days without Sherlock. “How was the holiday?”

“Lovely,” Mike replied, beaming, “Kids were great. My wife was pleased with the resort. Nice place. Very quiet.”

“Good break, then.”

“Yeah. And we needed it. _I_ needed it. I tend to get moody when I’m tired.” He laughed to himself. “Speaking of moody: how are things going at Baker Street with himself? You’ve moved back in?”

“Uh, yup,” John bit his lip, trying to contain the smile that he’d been wearing all morning outside of the time he’d spent treating patients.

He knew he looked like a prat (one of the nurses had mentioned it), but he hadn’t been able to tamp down on his good mood since leaving a languid Sherlock in his ( _their?)_ bed that morning. He’d woken late to the man sucking him off ( _oh, god, don’t start thinking about that_ ), but he’d still managed a quick shower and some very ( _oh so very, very_ ) heated goodbye kisses.

He’d ridden the tube with earbuds in—something he rarely did—repeating the first song that had come up. He just hadn’t been ready to abandon the hazy cocoon of his first two nights and full day as Sherlock’s lover for the harsh sounds of the city. And somehow James Brown had seemed a fitting soundtrack for venturing out as the loved-up fiancé of the world’s only consulting detective.

“You all right?” Mike’s voice sounded a bit puzzled. “You look…strange.”

“I’m fine.” John schooled his features as the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor and they made their way to the hospital restaurant.

Mike studied him as they followed the crowd and stepped into line. John handed him a tray, trying to keep his face turned. “Are you sure? I mean, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you looked like a man who’s just shagged a beautiful woman.”

“What?” John’s response was perhaps a bit more brittle than he’d intended.

Mike’s eyes widened. “Oh, ho, ho.”

“Stamford…”

Mike lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “Who is she?”

John ducked his head. “It’s—there’s no woman.”

He was temporarily spared from any further prevarication as they reached the food and were both forced to make selections. Mike hemmed and hawed over the hot offerings; John grabbed the first thing he saw, barely registering what it was. He wasn’t sure he was ready to discuss the big changes in his life with Mike but he was getting the feeling he might not be able to avoid it.

“Oh, would you look at that gateau?”

“Hmm?” John’s head came up, following Mike’s gaze. “Looks good. You going to have a slice?”

“God knows I want to, but the wife would murder me. We’re on a new diet together.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. She worries.” He patted his belly pointedly. “She’s a saint, really. Not easy to live with someone who has food issues when you don’t. Well, you know—with Sherlock and his not wanting to eat.”

“Oh, he wants to eat…sometimes,” John started, unable to check the impulse to talk about the man. “It’s only when he’s busy with ‘brainwork’ that he can’t be arsed about it. Eating is just another distraction. The real challenge, when he isn’t on a case, is to get him to eat something other than chocolate biscuits or bloody Chinese dumplings.”

“Maybe today will be the exception,” Mike grinned, staring over John’s shoulder.

“Sorry?” John turned to see what Mike was looking at.

There was his Sherlock, moving toward him with long strides. John’s heart flipped over at the sight of the tall, graceful figure in the long, dark coat.

Sherlock looked pleased with himself, his intense gaze fastened on John as he approached. “Hello.”

“Hello,” John replied quietly, feeling like a giddy fourth-former as he suppressed the urge to stick his tongue down the man’s throat. “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and released it, his smile mischievous. “Oh, I was just in the neighbourhood. Thought I would pop in.”

“Hello, Sherlock. How are you?” Mike asked pleasantly.

Sherlock tore his eyes from John briefly, acknowledging Mike with a tight, formal smile. “I’m well, Stamford, thank you. You should stick with the diet—those eight pounds have made a world of difference.”

Mike laughed, shaking his head. “Same old Sherlock.”

They moved down the line and John cautiously averted his gaze as he paid for his lunch and started to follow Stamford to a table. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes burning a hole in the side of his head, but he was also painfully aware of Stamford glancing back every now and then to watch them with undisguised curiosity.

“You neglected to mention the builder,” Sherlock said softly, slowing to allow Stamford to get some distance ahead of them.

“The…oh, the builder. Sorry about that. Mrs. Hudson told me yesterday while you were sleeping,” John whispered, glancing up quickly. “Were you up?”

“Up? Mmm…more or less.” Sherlock’s grin was that of a very, very naughty schoolboy.

“Oh, god. You weren’t.”

“You left me alone and aching in your bed, which smells of you, with only the memory of your arse in my hands and the taste of your cock in my mouth. What was I meant to do?”

John stumbled a little as he visualized.

Sherlock deftly caught his elbow. “Steady on.”

“Bastard.”

Sherlock’s quiet laughter rumbled between them.

“How’s this?” Mike had stopped by a table and turned back for approval.

John nodded, hurrying a little to catch up.

They sat with Stamford on one side of the table and John on the other, Sherlock at his left. John took a mouthful of coffee, nearly choking as Sherlock dropped a hand onto his upper thigh under the table.

“All right?” Mike asked.

John nodded, coughing, casting a dirty look in Sherlock’s direction. His fiancé, unfortunately, was watching Mike with a perfectly innocent, wide-eyed expression.

“I was just saying to John that he looked like a man who’d just got a leg over,” Mike said to Sherlock. “Don’t suppose you know who the lucky lady is.”

Sherlock met John’s eyes. “No. Sorry. No idea.”

“Too bad,” Mike tutted, taking a bite of curry. “I hope she’s nice a girl. Get our man, here, through his divorce.” Mike glanced up again, hesitating as he caught Sherlock and John staring at one another. He stopped chewing.

John snapped out of it first, trying not to look flustered. “So, Mike. Pub on Friday? I think I still owe you a pint.”

“Sure, yeah,” the man answered dully, looking from John to Sherlock and then back again. “Are you…? No. But…”

John felt the colour rising to his face. “Okay,” he started, setting his fork down. “Okay, look, I didn’t really want to tell anyone just yet, but I don’t suppose I’m doing a very good job of keeping it to myself. Things between Sherlock and I have…changed. We—we—”

“We’re shagging,” Sherlock offered helpfully. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. He lifted his hand from John’s thigh to curl it around his fingers on the table instead.

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” John sighed.

“And we’re planning to get married or what have you, so technically that means we are engaged. Promised. Affianced. Betrohhhhthed.” He drawled out the last, his brows crinkling as something occurred to him.

“All right…”

“I’m still not sure I understand this whole ‘civil partnership’ business,” Sherlock continued. “I did some reading this morning. Who decided that same-sex couples ought to be involved in a ‘partnership’ anyway? Sounds as though I’m meant to be opening a kebab shop, not committing to spend my life with the man I love. And didn’t someone promise the government would be revisiting this legislation? Has it happened yet? That bears looking into. I’m sure Mycroft must know.”

Sherlock finally paused for breath, looking out at the other two men now staring at him. “What? Not good?”

John smiled broadly, still reeling from the casual reference to “the man I love.” “Better than good.”

Sherlock’s mouth crooked up at the corner, his fingers idly rubbing the ring on John’s left hand.

John turned back to his old friend. Mike looked poleaxed.

“Blimey.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this way,” John began.

“No, no,” Mike stuttered. “Really. It’s fine. I just—I thought you two were only flatmates.”

“So did we,” John grinned. “It snuck up on us.”

Mike seemed to consider this for a moment, running his fork through his curry and nodding. “Makes sense, really. I mean anyone could see there was something crackling between you two, right from the start. But…”

“But what?” Sherlock asked sharply. “The idea of two men together disgusts you?”

“Sherlock!”

Mike looked horrified. “What? No! Absolutely no!”

“I didn’t think so,” Sherlock replied, his tone suddenly mild. “I thought I would just get that out of the way.”

Mike took a drink of water then took a long, slow breath in. “I’m surprised because I did have it on very good authority that John was only interested—especially interested—in the fairer sex.”

John pursed his lips as both men turned to him. He looked from one to the other, trying to ignore Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. “Right. That’s to me, is it?” He sighed. “Mike, I honestly believed that. I did. I have always been attracted to women. I’m not even sure I’d be attracted to any man other than this one.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I didn’t expect this.”

“When? I mean how long? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Two days,” Sherlock answered.

“It’s been coming on for a long time,” John filled in. “But we really only figured it out two days ago.”

“That explains the looks, then,” Mike winked. “You two could set a house alight.”

There was a buzzing noise from Sherlock’s coat. He reached into his pocket and removed his phone, quickly retrieving his new text.

“You know you’re not really supposed to have that switched on inside the hospital,” John chided.

“Am I not?”

“Sarcasm. Charming.”

“But you love it.”

“Lestrade?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, throwing his leg over the chair. “Stamford. Always a pleasure.” He hesitated, looking back at John. “You’ll join me after your shift?”

“Wouldn't miss it," John answered happily. He stood with an apologetic look for Mike. “I, uh, think I will just walk Sherlock out.”

Mike waved them off. “Yeah. Fine. Go on. Enjoy your romance. I’ll be sat here thinking about chocolate gateau.”

“Cheers,” John said, with a smile.

“You do owe me a pint, though,” Mike called after him.


	3. Assumptions, distractions and (almost) public transport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John learns that 1) stoic self-sacrifice is not always a good idea, 2) top is every bit as good as bottom, and 3) Sherlock truly has no shame; and Sherlock learns that 1) John's noble nature, while charming, can still be a nuisance sometimes, 2) his lover is, delightfully, a little kinkier than he believed, and 3) Lestrade is not always reliable.

“Tell me again what I’m looking for.”

John stopped in the middle of the abandoned shed, looking at the stacks of flattened cardboard boxes in every direction. The floor was littered with rubbish (from a group of squatters sometime in the past three months, Sherlock reckoned) and scraps of paper products of all kinds.

“Ginny Kelley’s work area was right next to the storage cupboard where the paper was kept. The delivery man—”

“Colvin?”

“He would have spent hours standing right beside her desk. If she stepped away at all, the limited sight lines from the rest of the office would have given him virtually uninterrupted access to her computer.”

“We’re _here_ because…?”

“The paper company listed on the recent invoices—which have been forged—defaulted on several loans several months ago. This building was never recorded officially as a storage facility; it had been stocked temporarily, perhaps in haste. It was overlooked by their creditors.”

“How was a bankrupt company still making paper deliveries to Ginny’s office?”

“They weren’t, but David Colvin was.”

“Ah, so he was taking what was left in here and selling it to his former employers’ customers.”

“Just the one.” Sherlock threw a stack of loose A3 pages to one side. “Colvin wasn’t interested in ill-gotten gain. He was only interested in Ginny. Keep looking!” He shouted this last, pitching a box of envelopes to the floor.

“Bu—you still haven’t told me what for!” John shouted back.

He waited for a response but there was none.

John sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. It was their second case in ten days; they’d hardly had an hour between this and the case that had called Sherlock away the day they’d met Mike at the hospital. And John had managed to fit in two additional shifts at the trauma unit as well.

But fatigue wasn’t his only problem.

He watched Sherlock for a moment, trying not to imagine the arse-hugging trousers under the long coat. Or the way the buttons on the slim-fitting, button-down shirt strained every time he took a breath. Or the way the fabric did little to disguise the hard points of Sherlock’s nipples beneath.

He trudged ahead, searching the floor for what he assumed he would recognize when he saw it, and tried not to think about Sherlock’s lovely arse. Or the way his cock might fit between the two perfect handfuls of flesh. He tried not to think about the sinful cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s mouth. Or that mouth wrapped around his cock.

John groaned as his body came to attention. “Oh, god. Not now.”

The fact was he had been struggling not to think about all these things for the better part of ten days. During that time, he’d slept alone in “their” bed while Sherlock went back to catnapping on the sofa (though that only when John nagged him). John had cuddled the pillows that still smelled like his lover and quietly brought himself off night after night. And he did all this because…

“The bloody work comes first,” John mumbled crossly to himself as he scoured the floor. “The work comes first. The work comes first. The work comes first. The wor—”

John bumped hard into the body that appeared in front of him without warning.

“John, you’re muttering.” Sherlock was glaring down at him.

“I know. I know.” John lifted his hands from where they’d landed on Sherlock’s chest when they collided. He took his time backing away, inhaling deeply so he’d have something to take with him.

“It’s very distracting.” The icy eyes narrowed at him.

“Sorry.”

Sherlock exhaled with exasperation and turned back to his investigation.

John resumed his search for he-knew-not-what. He was bent over looking through some empty boxes when a hand clamped over his mouth from behind and drew him up against a long, lean body.

“Shhhh,” Sherlock whispered in his ear. “He’s here.”

John nodded his understanding, trying not to melt into the feel of Sherlock’s body pressed against his back. One long arm was wrapped around his chest holding him close; he could feel Sherlock’s pelvis against the top of his bum. He was grateful his very evident erection was facing the other way.

The hand dropped from his mouth and he waited. He turned slightly to watch Sherlock, who was listening intently to the very faint movements in another part of the shed. Suddenly, there was a flurry of footsteps and the sound of things being knocked over.

Sherlock bolted; John close behind him. They rushed through to the main part of the shed, in the direction of the door. John spied the suspect heading for it—the only entrance to the building. Sherlock dove over and slid across a stack of loose cardboard boxes in a vain effort to reach it before…

It slammed shut, the sound of a heavy bar and a chain ringing against the steel.

Sherlock pounded his fists against the rusted door, dropping his head against it.

John stepped up behind him and placed a hand in the centre of his back, rubbing soothingly. It was the first real touch he’d attempted in over a week. “It’s okay. We can set the Yard on him.”

Sherlock turned and stared at him. It was the ‘I’m looking at you but I’m actually seeing something in my mind palace’ look. Sherlock grasped John’s face between both hands and leaned in for a quick, dry kiss.

“Indeed,” Sherlock crowed. “And I know exactly where he’s going.” He retrieved his phone and started texting Lestrade.

John rubbed his lips together, a little dazed. It wasn’t much, but in his current state he’d take it.

He made himself busy checking the door for weaknesses, and then searching the rest of the shed for any other possible ways out. There were none.

He settled himself on a stack of boxes, waiting for Sherlock to speak again. Finally, the man paced back in his direction. He jumped up on the boxes beside John, looking very pleased with himself.

“Greg sending someone after him?”

Sherlock nodded, tucking his phone away. “And I found what I was looking for.” He opened his other hand to reveal a small, silver memory stick in a plastic evidence bag.

“Brilliant,” John praised. “Did you remember to tell Greg we need someone to come let us out?”

“Of course I did. Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock tried not to sound insulted. "He'll come as soon as he can."

“Just making sure.” John smiled to himself. “How long do you think we have?”

“At least thirty minutes, given the way Lestrade usually drives,” Sherlock mused. “Plenty of time.”

“What for?”

“For you to fuck me.” Sherlock stood, shoving the evidence into his other pocket, and removed his coat. He turned and draped it over the stack of boxes beside John and began to work on his shirt buttons.

John stared, his tongue thick. “What?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Obviously, sexual activity falls under the category of ‘transport’—which, clearly, I am unable to devote any serious attention to while I’m working. _Clearly_ , you have been suffering. Why didn’t you simply tell me you needed to have sex?”

“Because I thought…you know, the work comes first. Didn’t want to be a distraction.”

“John, sucking you off or letting you fuck me would have been far less distracting than trying to figure out why you’ve been so moody.”

“ME moody!”

“Yes, you. Moody,” Sherlock leaned in and kissed him to defuse the charge. “I knew you were wanking in bed alone. You stopped kissing me. You were distant. I thought I had done something wrong. Then tonight I felt your erection when you bumped into me, mumbling about the work—and you sniffed me. Suddenly, it all made sense.”

John groaned and dropped his forehead to Sherlock’s. “We’re both idiots. I wanted you so badly I didn’t trust myself to get too close to you—do you have any idea how amazing you smell?” John frowned. “I didn’t want to be a bother and I didn’t want you to think of _us_ as a hindrance.”

Sherlock pulled back and stripped his shirt away. “A hindrance? John, you are essential to my work…to me. _We_ are essential to me, now. I am not always aware of the things needed to maintain our relationship, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

“But I know you can do without sex, like food and sleep, especially when you need to concentrate.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Do I eat when you remind me?”

“Sometimes.” John watched as Sherlock’s trousers and pants hit the floor.

“And do I sleep occasionally?”

“When I bother you about it, yeah.” John’s mouth watered as Sherlock inched toward him and pushed his knees apart, drawing him close.

“So?” He settled his very naked body against John. “Sometimes you’re going to have to bother me about this, too. Is that all right?”

“I—“ John couldn’t think of anything more to say. He lurched forward, days of pent up desire and longing bursting through at once. He buried both hands in Sherlock’s hair and held the man captive for his plundering tongue.

The kiss was messy and a little haphazard. John was too desperate to employ his best technique. All he could think about was _more_.

Sherlock used his free hands to unbutton John’s shirt. He slid his hands beneath and immediately moved to pull John’s nipples between thumbs and forefingers.

John mumbled Sherlock’s name against his lips. He deepened the kiss, stroking Sherlock’s tongue with his own, opening his mouth completely to allow his lover access. He felt Sherlock tugging his hands from the curly hair—he started to protest only to realize that his jacket was being pushed down his arms.

Sherlock spread John’s shirt wide and dropped his mouth to the exposed chest. He pulled one hardened bud between his teeth and tugged, teasing it with tip of his tongue as he did. John arched into him, clinging to his shoulders to keep from falling back against their makeshift cardboard bed.

Sherlock sucked the nipple into his mouth, drawing on it as his tongue laved. He continued to tease the other with deft fingers.

John’s head fell back as Sherlock switched sides. It was too good—he’d been too long without…

“Sherlock, stop. Oh, god, stop.”

Sherlock moved back, his eyes bright. He nodded, understanding, and pulled John up. He made quick work of John’s trousers and pants, but managed only to get them to John’s ankles.

John dragged him close again, grinding his aching cock against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock captured his mouth and spun them until he was pressed into the stack of boxes. He released John with an enigmatic smile. And then he turned.

John stopped breathing as Sherlock bent himself over the stack of boxes, laying his chest against the smooth lining of his coat, widening his stance and presenting his beautiful arse.

“ _Fuckingeverlastinghell_ ,” John croaked, his cock throbbing in anticipation.

Sherlock reached back with both hands and gently pulled the soft, rounded cheeks further apart.

“Fuck me, John,” he breathed.

John stepped in, smoothing his hands over Sherlock’s before sliding eager fingers into the cleft. He rubbed over the pink pucker as his brain slowly caught up.

“Lube—damn it…”

“Saliva, John. It’ll do.” As if to demonstrate, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and dragged him forward. John spread out over Sherlock’s back as his hand made its way to Sherlock’s mouth. John’s cock nestled up against Sherlock’s arse as Sherlock sucked and dowsed his fingers. He rocked into Sherlock’s body, eyes closed. He reached out his other hand to Sherlock’s and laced their fingers.

Finally satisfied, Sherlock’s mouth released him. “Quickly,” he panted.

John obliged, lifting off and leaning back to slide the wet digits down into Sherlock’s cleft, hurriedly slipping one tip inside.

Sherlock grunted, flinching slightly.

John hesitated, thinking back to Sherlock’s care with him on their first night. He eased the finger forward gently, unprepared as Sherlock drove back into him, taking him completely. John froze, holding completely still as Sherlock pulled off and reared back again and again, fucking himself on John’s hand.

“Jes—Sherlock!” 

“Good. Enough. In me. Please!”

“No! You can’t be ready.”

“JOHN!”

John started, removing his finger. He released Sherlock’s hand and spat liberally into both of his own to coat his cock, though he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He guided the head up against Sherlock’s entrance and pushed forward until it slipped inside. He felt the tight ring of muscle resisting and he paused.

“We can’t. You’re too tight.” He let his body relax over his lover’s back, wrapping one arm around and under to stroke the bare midriff.

Sherlock reached back with both hands, grabbed John’s arse cheeks. He held firmly as he drove back, impaling himself on John’s cock.

“Sherlock no!!” John cried out, even as Sherlock’s body enveloped him. He felt the man’s abdominal muscles contracting in pain and heard the sharp intake of breath. “Oh, love, no.”

He dropped his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder as they lay locked together, unmoving. The heat, the tightness of Sherlock’s body was overwhelming. John’s breathing was shallow as he adjusted, attempting to slow his over-eager body.

Sherlock was shaking a little as he finally released John’s hips. He stroked up John’s side, seeking his free hand. John gave it willingly, twining their fingers back together. 

“So full. So…full. Move, John. Please.”

John withdrew a little and sank back down gently. Sherlock grunted again, but moved a little with him. John repeated the motion, taking it slowly and trying not to move too hard or too deep.

After many long minutes, they finally established a rhythm. Sherlock was groaning now; he shifted his hips so John had a better angle to stimulate his prostate.

“Harder. Fuck me harder.”

John immediately complied, strangely relieved to abandon gentleness. He drove into Sherlock’s body, the heat and the drag like nothing else he had ever known. Eventually, he could feel his release approaching. He slid his hand downward from Sherlock’s belly.

“NO!” Sherlock barked. “Your mouth. After. You first.”

John hummed his agreement; his body’s needs now trumping his rational mind.

His thrusts became harder and faster as his climax approached. A few short minutes later, he felt his balls drawing up. “Oh, Chri—Sherlock. I’m coming. Oh, god. I love you…love you so much.”

He buried himself one last time, grinding against the softness of his lover’s arse as he spent himself within.

Sherlock groaned with him, clasping their still-joined fingers together as John shuddered against his body. John collapsed across Sherlock’s back again, placing tender kisses down his spine.

Slowly, slowly, John began to withdraw, rubbing soothing circles into Sherlock’s belly as he did. Now able to think more clearly, he was mindful of the fact that it might be painful.

He eased away, still breathing hard, making enough space for Sherlock to turn. The taller man straightened and faced him. John leaned in and dragged his lover down to kiss him, Sherlock’s fingers immediately digging into the back of his neck. They tangled tongues and he dropped a hand to his lover’s turgid cock.

Sherlock moaned into his mouth. John kissed across one sharp cheekbone before pulling back with a contented smile. With John’s hands at his waist, Sherlock jumped back up on to his coat and lay back on the stack of boxes. The long limbs rearranged themselves—legs wide and bent at the knee, his feet braced against their temporary rack.

“John, your mouth…please.” Sherlock’s voice was a little broken.

John stood between the braced thighs. He reached out to stroke over the definition of the lean muscles of Sherlock’s chest, rubbing briefly over the taut nipples. He lingered a moment, though he knew Sherlock was not as sensitive there as he was. His appreciative fingers then traced the soft, smooth planes of his lover’s abdomen. He bent to place loving kisses on the thigh next to him.

He prepared to lower himself to his lover’s prick when he caught a glimpse of the place his own had just been: his come had dribbled from Sherlock’s hole, down between the parted globes of the perfect arse.

“Oh, god,” John breathed, a sharp knife of lust piercing his belly. He traced a shaking finger through the milky liquid leaking there, noting with a little concern how red and puffy the area was. “Fuck…”

Sherlock writhed with a low growl. “John!”

“S-sorry,” John stammered, realizing quickly that he was going to have to revisit this moment. Obviously when Sherlock was not quite so desperate to come.

He settled himself between Sherlock’s splayed limbs and lowered his mouth. He teased the head of Sherlock’s cock with his lips, tonguing the fraenulum before licking down the length of Sherlock’s shaft. Sherlock’s hands dug into his hair, not pulling hard but holding him insistently.

“Mmmmm…John.”

John slid his tongue back up and sucked his lover’s length into the heat of his mouth. He hollowed out his cheeks, just grazing the glans with his teeth as he pulled off and sank back again and again. He relished the sound of Sherlock’s ragged breathing mingled with the slick noises of his mouth on the man’s cock.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to reach his release. He tensed, fingers clenching in John’s hair.

“Oh, god!” he groaned, hips bucking as he spurted down John’s throat.

John swallowed happily—feeling far more confident than he had the first time—stroking the base of Sherlock’s cock as he rode out his orgasm.

“Good,” Sherlock rasped. His fingers unclenched, the tension in his body uncoiling almost immediately.

John chuckled as he straightened, swiping the back of his hand over his chin. “Glad you approve.”

Sherlock hummed, the ghost of a smile on his face. He allowed his legs to begin to drop closed and started to sit up when John’s palm slapped against the centre of his chest.

“Hang about,” John cautioned. “We did things your way. My turn.”

“Already? An admirable refractory period for a man of your age…”

“Just lie still, you gangly git.”

John pushed the thighs wide once more and leaned down to trace gentle fingers between the cheeks of Sherlock’s bum, checking for any signs of bleeding or tissue damage. Sherlock’s anus was still very red and looking far more abused than John would have liked.

“While I appreciate your concern, I believe we’ve established that I have in fact done this before.”

“Without lube?”

“Possibly.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows.

“Yes, thank you for your medical opinion. Shut it.”

John continued until he was satisfied, still unnerved by how aroused he was by the sight of his semen leaving Sherlock’s body. He straightened again, centring himself between Sherlock’s thighs and rubbing them affectionately. “Right. We’re never doing that again.”

“You can’t be serious.” Sherlock sounded genuinely confused and a little irritated. “You enjoyed it.”

“No, no.” John shook his head vehemently. He smiled at the perplexed expression on Sherlock’s face. “Being inside you was—I can’t even begin to describe how amazing that felt. But we need to do this safely,” John said firmly. “Proper preparation from now on. Is that understood?”

Sherlock blew air out between pursed lips, his eyes rolling.

“I’m too…you know…for you to take me without,” John insisted. “You are going to be very, very sore tomorrow.”

Sherlock sat up, wrapping both arms around John’s neck and both long legs around his waist. He dropped a soft kiss on the end of John’s nose. “Have I mentioned that I find your tone of command very arousing?”

“Sherlock....”

“Very erotic. Especially when you use it on other people.”

“Zat so.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Sherlock flicked his tongue over John’s earlobe.

“So I should pull rank more often.”

“Definitely.”

“This is all very interesting, but we’re still not doing that again.”

Sherlock sighed heavily, as though greatly put upon. “But what if I were to tell you I enjoyed it?”

“I know I hurt you.”

“Not really. Not significantly,” Sherlock began. “Besides, I hurt you. Or have you already forgotten.”

“Of course not, but this is different,” John pointed out. “This was too hard, too fast…”

“But hard and fast can be so very, very, very good,” Sherlock rumbled, his expression predatory. He dragged one hand over John’s chest to twist one tender nipple.

John twitched at Sherlock’s exploitation of the direct line to his cock.

“Don’t you trust me?” Sherlock continued.

John tried hard not to look too sceptical.

“I know my limits, John. I will tell you when it’s too much.”

“You have an addictive personality, love. And you don’t have a lot of respect for your body.”

“But I’m trying to learn to have respect for you,” Sherlock replied, quite serious. “I don't want you to do something to me that you would regret.”

John studied the man’s face. Sherlock’s usually intense gaze was somewhat softened, a little less guarded. They stared at one another, breathing together, forming a new facet of a bond they had shared for so very long.

Finally, John nodded. “All right,” he said softly. "But you're still not talking me out of the lube."

Sherlock nodded his acceptance of this new pact. He leaned close and placed a gentle kiss on John’s mouth. “Excellent,” he said cheerfully. “That leaves only one item.” He tightened his grip, curling in to whisper in John’s ear. “You enjoyed watching it leak out of me.” He dragged his tongue over John’s neck. “Did you want to push it back in?”

John shivered. “Fuck, yes. So much. I wanted to, but you looked so sore.” He clung to Sherlock.

“Next time, then,” Sherlock soothed, stroking a hand down over John’s back.

Sherlock relaxed into their embrace, allowing John to run his hands over his body and bury his nose in the dark curls. John suspected Sherlock was humouring him with the snuggling, but he didn’t care.

He felt the wonderful lethargy beginning to claim him when there was a loud pounding on the door. He jumped, looking from the door to Sherlock. “Who…?”

“It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, sounding very bored. “I heard him outside ten minutes ago. Must have had his foot down.”

“Are you two ‘bout done?” Lestrade’s voice was muffled by the heavy door, but it was clear enough to indicate that sound would carry.

“And you didn’t say anyth—Sherlock!!” John pulled away, dropping to drag pants and trousers back up. He stumbled. “Oh, my god. He’s just been stood there listening to…” John dropped his chin to his chest. “This is not good.”

Sherlock stood and moved slowly to retrieve his own clothes. He dressed calmly, watching John with some curiosity. “Interesting. Is it the idea that someone heard us having sex or is it that it happened to be Lestrade?”

John gaped at his lover. “There is absolutely no way for me to separate the horror of those two things right now.”

“Look, if you’re decent, I’m opening the door.” Lestrade’s voice was gruff.

John had finished with his pants and jeans and was hastily buttoning his shirt. There was a loud squeaking noise and a thunderous snap and the door fell open.

Lestrade was standing in the gathering dark, holding a gigantic pair of bolt cutters. He wasn't attempting to disguise his amusement. "If you don't mind. I haven't got all bloody night, you know.”

He strode from the scene, leaving John and Sherlock to gather the remainder of their clothing and follow him to his car.

Lestrade lit a cigarette as he reached the car and took a long drag. John was pulling his jacket on as he caught up, with Sherlock only steps behind him. Greg looked up at them and then at his fag.

“Sorry—need one?” He held it out to John with a cheeky grin.

John knew he was still red. “Look, Greg…”

“Aw, c’mon,” Greg said good-naturedly. “I don’t care what you two get up to. Never have.”

“We haven’t been ‘up to’ anything,” Sherlock interjected. “Until very recently.”

“Really?” Greg looked inordinately pleased. “Well, that’s funny, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” John asked. “Why?”

“I always said you weren’t—all the guys and Sally were convinced you were,” Greg said. “I thought when I got here that I’d missed it somehow, but turns out I was right all along.”

“Yes, good for you,” Sherlock sighed. “Did you catch Colvin?”

“Yeah, they got him,” Greg nodded, back to business. “Breaking into the server room at Miss Kelley’s ISP. So you can let your client know this is now a police matter. You find anything here?”

Sherlock hesitated. John was about to intervene when Greg raised an eyebrow at the detective. Reluctantly, he pulled the evidence bag from his coat pocket and dropped it into the DI’s open palm. The older man glanced up as another two cars pulled into the lot.

“That’ll be Sally. And you two are just lucky I got here ahead of them—Anderson’s on tonight.”

Greg stubbed out his cigarette. He pulled open the rear car door. “Let’s go, then. You won’t get a cab out here and it’s getting late.”

“What’s the rush? No one waiting for you at the bed-sit in Clapham, is there?” Sherlock ducked his head and curled into the back seat.

Greg’s smile faded as John moved to climb in behind the detective.

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” John offered. “I didn’t realize.”

“No one was meant to know,” Greg sighed. “We’ve only been separated since they rang me at Eastbourne about that real estate developer case. She told me if I took the call I didn’t need to bother coming back.”

John nodded. “Are you all right?”

“I think I should be asking you that,” Greg’s laugh was bitter. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Yes.” John pursed his lips. “I know what I’m taking on. So does he.”

Greg gave him a hard look, then shrugged. “Okay.”

“But I appreciate the concern,” John added.

“Just to clarify: I _do_ have something to get home for, so could we hurry this up?” Sherlock’s voice echoed out of the car. “It’s my turn to top.”

John’s cheeks flamed again. He shook his head at Greg. “Not a bloody word.”

“Wasn’t going to say anything, me,” Greg said innocently as he closed the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, for any who have been waiting! Summer cold kicked my butt. Back on track--new chapter to come very soon.


	4. Let me call you sweetheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John frets about Molly, Sherlock attempts to understand endearments and Mike's office will never be the same.

John perched uncomfortably on his stool in the lab at Bart’s, hunched over the counter with his chin resting on his propped hands, watching Sherlock and Molly working side by side.

Molly was completing samples from a post mortem on a 64-year-old lorry driver who’d died behind the wheel. Sherlock was staring through the microscope at the blood samples he’d collected (read “stolen”) from Anderson’s kit earlier that evening.

As they shared slides, passed reagents back and forth, and politely traded off the use of equipment, John couldn’t help noting how much their relationship had changed since the day he’d met them.

Sherlock, for his part, no longer called Molly by anyone else’s name or sent her for coffee. And he’d finally ceased making inappropriate comments about her appearance and her love life.

Molly, too, was different: less nervous and a little less sad.

John was pleased at this positive shift, but he was still a bit worried about how she would react to the change in his relationship with Sherlock. Her feelings for the detective had never been much of a secret; however insensitive to them the man might be. And she had been such a very good friend to him: she’d risked her career to help him protect the people he cared about from Moriarty’s hit men, and she’d been one of his only contacts during his three years away.

John hated to think of her being hurt as a result of their happiness. He just had to keep Sherlock from doing or saying anything until he’d had a chance to work out the best way to go to about telling her.

He stifled a sudden yawn, stretched and glanced at his watch. They’d been at the hospital for almost three hours and it was getting late. And, honestly, he had very little to do. Short of…

“Anyone fancy a coffee?” he asked. Two heads lifted and turned toward him. “No? Just me, then.”

Molly stored the last of her samples. “I could use one, actually,” she said softly. She began removing her gloves. “But I’ll go. I need a break.”

“No, Molly, it’s fine. I’m happy to do it,” John protested. He jumped to his feet and moved to intercept her.

“It’s okay. I’ve been sitting too long.”  She smiled shyly as she passed him. The door clicked closed behind her a few seconds later.

The room was quiet once again and John sat back on the stool, suppressing the urge to hum or whistle. He started drumming his fingers against the counter, which earned him a glare from his beloved. He sighed and settled back into a slouch, contemplating the possibility of sleeping sitting up.

“John, would you bring me a pair of gloves?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the stillness of the room. John looked up to see that the man had not moved a muscle, nor turned his attention from his work.

He glanced around quickly and spied the box near the sink—closer, in fact, to Sherlock than it was to him, but that was hardly new. He walked over and pulled a pair free before returning to where Sherlock was sitting. He dropped them on the counter beside the microscope and was about to turn away when a firm hand closed around his wrist.

“You call me ‘love’.”

“Say again?”

“You call me ‘love’.”

John pondered the randomness of the statement—yet another conversation begun somewhere in the middle. “Yeah, I know I do sometimes. Sorry about that. Just slips out. I’ll stop if it bothers you.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock smirked down into his slide. “But it occurs to me this sort of thing is generally reciprocated.”

“Meaning?”

“Would you like me to use a similar sort of affectionate term for you?”

“If you like.”

“What?”

“What _what_?”

“John, I am attempting to have a discussion about our relationship. Something you know is entirely foreign to me,” Sherlock looked up with a sigh. “I’m making an effort. Do try and pay attention.”

John couldn’t help but grin at this. He pulled his wrist free and lifted both hands. Sherlock looked apprehensive but relaxed immediately when John cupped his face, leaned in and kissed his slightly chapped lips. John cradled Sherlock’s cheek as he tilted the man’s face to allow him better access to his mouth.

Sherlock’s hand bumped into his chest, fingers curling into his jumper. John pulled back slowly, moving his hand to rub his thumb over the spot his lips had just occupied. Sherlock’s eyes were a little glazed over—John felt a stab of raw pleasure, knowing he was the only person who could make this incredible man look just that way.

He was brought bumping back to the lab when he heard the door snap closed behind them. He spun to see Molly frozen with her back against the wall, each hand holding a coffee cup from the machine at the end of the hall.

“Sorry…I…sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…anything.” She crossed the room quickly and dropped John’s coffee on the counter beside him.

“Molly, wait.” He reached out for her as she passed.

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock said softly, his attention already returned to his microscope.

John looked from Molly—now hurriedly pulling her coat on—back to Sherlock.

“Did you plan that?”

“You were fretting about Molly. An opportunity presented itself.”

“Oh, for—”

“It’s okay, John,” a quiet voice said from the far side of the room. “Really. It’s fine.” She smiled, a little flushed now. “I’m going to go because, well, it is very late and I can finish my report tomorrow. And I think you two should probably be alone. But you don’t need to worry. I knew.”

“You knew. About us.”

Molly started toward the door, hesitating as she neared John. “I could see it. The way you look at him now. It’s different. More like the way he used to look at you when he knew you couldn’t see. Like the night before…you know. He was so careful not to let you see him worrying.” She leaned in close.  “And the way he talked about you when you were apart. I thought his heart would brea—”

“Yes, thank you, Molly,” Sherlock interrupted. “You can go now.”

She looked back at John, only a little wistful. “I knew it was you,” she whispered. “That it would always be you.”

John knew his expression was probably pained. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said brightly. “Sherlock and I are friends now, I think. Or at least he tolerates me much better than he used to.”

“You’re very important to both of us,” he said.

She hesitated before leaning in to kiss his cheek. She looked away, blushing furiously now. “You’ll make sure he locks up? And doesn’t leave with anything he’s not meant to have?”

“John is my fiancé, not my babysitter,” Sherlock said sharply.

“She’s just safeguarding her cadavers, love,” John chuckled.

“Fiancé?” Molly’s eyes were wide.

“Ah, yes. We…sort of…” John stammered.

“I proposed and John accepted. John will, of course, insist on having some sort of celebratory…thing…to which you will be invited.”

“Me?” John was indignant. “I’m not the one with the brother sending suggested guest lists that contain most of the Commons and the Lords!”

“Oh, that. Not to worry. Told Mycroft if he tried to hijack the proceedings I would send that photo of him at the ‘spa’ to the Daily Mail.”

Molly watched them for a moment, a hint of amusement lighting her eyes. “Well, congratulations. And good luck.”

John shook his head. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I should just,” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. “’Night, then.”

“Good night,” John replied. He watched the door for some minutes after it had closed behind her.  “She really is a lovely girl.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“It’s too bad she hasn’t found anyone yet. Though that last bloke—the dentist? He was a right twat. I’m glad you scared him off.”

The vacuum of conversation continued as John pondered something.

“I wonder...you don’t suppose she and Greg—”

“Affectionate term, John,” Sherlock drew his attention, abruptly shifting back to their previous conversation. “What would you like me to call you?”

“Hmmm? Oh, right.” John inclined his head as he tried to imagine the sexy, deep voice wrapped around some of the more common endearments. “I dunno. I think it should just sort of feel…natural.”

“Feel. Yes.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you would find pleasing. And I’m uncertain about the application of such expressions. Would I use it only at home? I have noticed you don’t call me ‘love’ in front of the Met. Will that be your preference indefinitely or will it change over time? If I did call you something affectionate in public, should I find I am able to do so, would it embarrass you? Should a pet name be applied only during our sexual encounters or would you prefer me to use it in more platonic situations as well, as you do?”

“I’ve never given it much thought, to be honest.”

“I need data, John. If I am to be successful in maintaining an intimate connection with another human being, I will need you to provide me with the benefit of your considerable experience in the field.“

“Now, just wait…”

“That was not a judgment, merely a statement of fact. You’ve had relationships. An extensive number of them, if Stamford is to be believed.”

“When did you talk to Mike about this?”

“Yesterday. He was speaking with Molly when I arrived. Of course his real purpose was transparent: he was waiting for me. To discuss you.” Sherlock’s tone was teasing now. “He wanted to check in. Make sure I was taking care as this is all very new for you, in spite of your reputation as a man who never slept alone.”

“Okay, I know he didn’t say that.”

“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock agreed. “He called you ‘Three-Continents Watson’.”

“Oh, god, I’d forgotten I told him about that. But don’t you even try to pretend you didn’t already know about it. You met my RAMC mates that night after we got back from Devon. After The Hound. They were pissed and you were…being _you_.” John pointed a finger. “And even if one of them didn’t give it away, I’m pretty sure you’d have come to it somehow, between my foot locker, my laptop and your bloody brother.”

“Admittedly, yes, I was aware of it. But that was before I’d had the pleasure myself, so to speak.” Sherlock changed slides. “I find myself quite aroused now by the idea of you seducing scores of women at home and abroad, only to give it all up for me.”

John flushed. “It wasn’t scores.”

“Near enough,” Sherlock said lightly. “Would you like to know what else Mike had to say?”

“I’m not so sure about that now.”

“He told me to look after you. That you were a good man who deserved happiness.”

“Oh,” John muttered; a little overwhelmed at his old college mate’s efforts to protect him.

“It’s perfectly reasonable that he should feel some responsibility, John. He introduced us, after all. And I expected the people who care about you to express some concern. I am not exactly an obvious choice for someone’s husband.”

“But you are _my_ choice.”

“Which is what I told Stamford,” Sherlock glanced up from his microscope. “And I told him I knew exactly how much you deserved, and while I was likely to fail at providing it, I would dedicate myself wholeheartedly to the attempt.”

“Oh,” John said again.

Sherlock swivelled and reattached his hand to John’s jumper, tugging him closer. “And so, returning again to my previous inquiry: What shall I call you?” He leaned in to nuzzle just below John’s ear.

“Whatever you like,” John breathed, tilting his head back to allow Sherlock access to the very sensitive spot just above his pulse.

“I think,” Sherlock purred against John’s skin. “I will try ‘my dear’.” His tongue teased up and over John’s jaw. “Though I may have to keep ‘Three-Continents Watson’ in reserve. Perhaps you could wear your uniform…”

“Yes?”

“You know I love it when you boss me about,” Sherlock whispered, teasing his lips across one cheek.

John groaned. “We have to stop now. I can’t sit here all night in this state.”

“There’s a sofa in Mike’s office.”

“Mike’s office?”

Sherlock pulled back, a fob with a single key dangling from one outstretched finger. “Nicked his key yesterday and had a duplicate made. Could always pick the lock, of course, but this seemed more expedient. I thought it might come in handy, should certain circumstances arise.”

John slid one hand over Sherlock’s bum. “Oh, circumstances are arising. But we really shouldn’t.”

“Anywhere, John. You promised.”

“I’m going to live to regret that, aren’t I?”

“Most likely,” Sherlock sucked on the doctor’s bottom lip. “I did warn you.”

“As long as we don’t have a bloody audience this time.”

John opened his mouth over Sherlock’s. Minutes were lost to lapping, tasting and stroking, both men seduced by the soft, wet sounds of their kisses.

“Wh-what about the case?” John panted, finally pulling back to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He was hard and throbbing now, nearing the point of no return.

“Done. Second blood sample is the killer.” Sherlock slid his hands under John’s jumper and the shirt beneath. “Given the levels of silver, and the distinctive necklace Anderson failed to notice had been taken from the body, our murderer is a master silversmith likely suffering from argyria or argyrosis.”

“Silversmith?”

“The necklace design was dated, perhaps five or six years old, but she kept it and wore it regularly, indicated by the discoloration around the nape of her neck. Sentimental attachment. I found some holiday snaps of her wearing the necklace between the pages of the novel on her dressing table—good thing we weren’t relying on Lestrade’s people to find anything during _their_ search, then. A quick look through her things revealed a selection of other pieces made by the same artist, all of a similar vintage. She received all of the jewellery during a period several years ago. Gifts from a lover. Yet she’d received nothing since—so a severing of the relationship. She kept his gifts, though—statistically a male is more likely—indicating that she maintained fond memories of the relationship after he ended it _or_ she was the one who ended it without regret. I am inclined to believe the latter, based on the evidence in her flat: she worked her way through a succession of relationships after the jeweller and kept trophies from each, yet there is nothing that would indicate she was suffering from disappointed hopes. No, she was the one in control of her relationships. Well, at least until…”

“That was brilliant.”

Sherlock smiled. “I have an expert examining the photo of the necklace for any marks that will identify the craftsman. That coupled with his health issues should make him easy enough for Lestrade to find.”

John stroked his chest. “Amazing.”

“I…” Sherlock broke off, suddenly looking a bit awkward. “Thank you.”

John’s eyes widened. He wanted to say something about this new effort at something like humility, but knew he dare not. “You’re welcome.”

Sherlock looked delighted, smoothing his palms over John’s bare back beneath his clothes. He pulled John close and peppered his mouth with soft, wet kisses.

“Maybe we should just go ho—oh, god…” John’s thoughts ran aground as Sherlock’s hand dropped to cup him through his khaki trousers. He leaned into the touch, grinding against the firm palm. Sherlock squeezed gently, stroking out toward the head of his cock and rubbing there. “Never mind,” John said weakly.

He grabbed Sherlock’s phone with a shaking hand and shoved it at the man before slipping behind him to push him up and toward the door. “Mike’s office. Now. You can text Lestrade while we walk.” 

Sherlock looked very amused as he took the phone and allowed himself to be ushered toward the corridor. He picked up his coat as they passed and swung it over his arm.

His fingers danced over the phone as John drove him out the door, on around the corner, down one flight of stairs and through another long, deserted corridor. He pocketed the device with flourish as they reached the door to Mike’s office.

Sherlock produced his key and unlocked it. He turned his back to the door as he pushed it wide, allowing John to follow him in. But John didn’t.

John pinned him against the metal door, both hands fisted in the lapels of his suit jacket. He dragged the taller man down for a punishing kiss, tongue penetrating over and over as he moulded their bodies together. He wedged a knee between Sherlock’s legs and slid his thigh up against Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock responded immediately, angling down to rut against the offered limb.

“Mmmm…ohh!” Sherlock began to slide sideways as the door continued to give way behind him. His eyes flew open in surprise as he and John were sent tumbling out onto the floor.

“Mmmpph.” John landed on his hip, only just catching himself to prevent a jar to his bad shoulder. His leg was still tangled between both of Sherlock’s—the man had fallen flat on his back, his coat loosed from its position over his arm and now covering his face.

John started giggling as he rolled closer to Sherlock’s body. He dug through the folds of dark wool to reveal the face of a very annoyed detective. John snorted now, unable to control himself. He dropped his head to Sherlock’s chest as the door snapped closed behind them.

Sherlock huffed. “It isn’t that funny.”

“Beg to differ,” John choked out, his hand stroking through the dark curls as he propped himself over Sherlock’s prone form. “It’s very funny.”

He kissed Sherlock playfully, without any of the previous heat, nibbling lips and cheeks. But, oh…

Sherlock’s hand had disappeared between them and found it’s way to John’s zip. John retreated, sucking air in through pursed lips as fingers found their way into his trousers, through the gap in his pants and closed around him.

The blood rushed right back to where it had previously been, plumping his cock, as Sherlock teased him through his clothes. John began to rock into each stroke.

“Is that funny?” Sherlock growled into his ear.

“N-n-n-oooo,” John moaned as Sherlock’s thumb teased over the bundle of nerves on the underside of his prick.

“Good. Back to business, then.” Sherlock withdrew his hand and pushed John back.

“What—no—I’m sorry I lau—oh, god, please don’t stop.”

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed, rolling to stand before dragging John to his feet. “I’m not stopping.” He grasped the hem of John’s jumper and dragged it over the unsuspecting doctor’s head.

“Heymmpph.” John’s protest was muffled by the garment as it flew up and off onto the floor.

“We have privacy here. Might as well enjoy it.” Sherlock made quick work of the shirt buttons and dragged it down John’s arms. Trousers and pants swiftly followed. He stopped there, moving on to tear his own suit jacket off. “John, a little help?”

He glanced back to find John bending down to pull his socks off.

“Really?” Sherlock’s tone was disbelieving.

“I—it’s weird, all right?” John flushed as he finished quickly. He straightened, hands on hips, cock bobbing up toward his belly.

“But you let me leave mine on at the shed,” Sherlock pointed out, his brows furrowed.

“That was a shed. This is—it’s just different. Look, shut up and give me…here…” John stepped in and began deftly undoing Sherlock ‘s shirt.

Sherlock was smiling with genuine glee now. “You are utterly unique, Dr. Watson.” He dropped a kiss on John’s brow before he ducked to tug his charcoal suit trousers down.

When they were both suitably naked, Sherlock wrapped a long arm around his neck and kissed him deeply, slanting his mouth over John’s as he backed him toward the now closed door. John hummed his approval, allowing himself to be manoeuvred up against the…“Jes—that’s cold!”…steel door.

John flinched as he waited for the metal to warm beneath his back. Sherlock busied himself with stroking John’s twitching arse, rubbing his own cock against John's body and sucking a mark into the hollow above his collarbone.

The long-fingered hand returned to John’s cock and he sighed with relief. Sherlock stroked him lightly as he began to slide down toward the floor. He knelt between John’s feet and looked up at him with a smile. John held his breath. Oh, god, how he loved this…

The sweet lips closed around him and John dissolved into the still-thrilling sensation of his lover’s talented tongue. Sherlock teased and sucked, stroking his thumb firmly over John’s perineum. John shuddered.

Sherlock drew off of John’s throbbing cock, only far enough to flick at the head with the tip of his tongue. John was clutching at the door, trying to resist the urge to bury his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and fuck the beautiful mouth.

The deep voice hummed around him. John felt his hands grasped roughly and dragged toward Sherlock’s head. Sherlock wove John’s fingers into the dark curls with a grunt. John’s eyes were wide as Sherlock tugged—he obeyed reluctantly, canting his hips forward.

“Oh, my god, Sherlock—” John groaned as Sherlock held John’s hands firmly on his own head, guiding it back and forth over John’s length. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

Sherlock responded with a low rumbling noise, relaxing his jaw and taking John deep.

John instinctively clutched his hair, hips moving of their own accord. He pulled Sherlock back and forward again onto his throbbing prick, gasping as he felt Sherlock’s nose against his groin. “Fuck!”

John began to thrust, unable to control the need. He snapped his hips forward, burying his cock in the warm, waiting mouth. Sherlock made a contented noise as John’s cock slid over his tongue. John withdrew and plunged in again and again.

He kept his eyes fixed on the man at his feet, overwhelmed by the erotic picture he made: beautiful silvery blue-green eyes gazing up at him with complete trust; gorgeous tousled hair twined through John’s fingers; perfect pink lips wrapped around John’s cock, with saliva leaking out onto his chin.

“You are so fucking beautiful—fucking gorgeous—jes…” John gasped as Sherlock allowed his teeth to graze over the head of his cock.

Sherlock grasped John’s hips in his hands and held on, not attempting to slow or control, but merely digging his fingertips into the smooth flesh as John continued to fuck his mouth.

After long minutes, John could feel his climax approaching. He slowed a little, pulling his cock from Sherlock’s mouth. “Have to…”

“Come on my face,” Sherlock encouraged, his hands reaching in to fondle John’s balls with one hand as he twisted his fist over the head of the still-glossy prick with the other. He leaned forward and teased the slit with his tongue. “Come all over me. Mark me, John.”

He leaned back slightly, reddened lips open and tongue extended as he continued to pump John’s throbbing cock. The sight was more than John could bear; the sensations started somewhere near the base of his spine, rolled through his central nervous system and crested in an orgasm that exploded in sticky, white ribbons all over Sherlock’s face. “Yes, yes, oh fuck…love you. Oh, god, Sherlock…”

Sherlock stayed still, pumping gently until John finally collapsed against the door. Sherlock swallowed what had landed in his mouth and leaned in to lap away at the come on John’s cock and on his own hand. John felt his knees giving way as the man finally pulled back.

He slid to the floor, grasping his lover’s face in both hands and pulling him forward. Sherlock obliged, bracing himself with his hands planted against the door on either side of John’s head. John began to clean away the streaks of white that had painted the beautiful cheekbones before coming to rest on the soft, pliant, wet mouth. He kissed Sherlock wantonly, stroking along the tongue with his own and tasting himself there.

Sherlock pulled back slightly. “Want to come inside you. Please let me come inside you,” he murmured against John’s mouth.

“Yes,” John panted. “God, yes. But…”

“What?” Sherlock looked concerned.

“I haven't—you know…cleaned myself,” John blushed.

“It’s not always necessary, unless you prefer it. It was nice for our first few times—it made you feel more at ease, I think.” John nodded. “But I didn’t have the opportunity three weeks ago. Did you mind?”

“Uh, no. No.”

Sherlock kissed him again. “Okay?”

John nodded, hands flattened over the pale chest. “I trust you.”

Something indefinable passed over Sherlock’s features. He retreated and stood. He reached down for John who took the offered hand gratefully and stood, following him to the sofa on shaking legs. Sherlock kissed him before settling him down on the sofa. He turned to dig through his coat pocket before returning to kneel on the floor between John’s spread legs.

“You carry lube in your coat now?”

“Since you told me we’re not having sex without it? Of course.” Sherlock tugged John forward until his bum was just hanging over the edge of the sofa cushion. “Condoms, too. Yes?”

John nodded again—easier clean up. Sherlock lubed his fingers quickly and parted the cheeks of John’s bum. He stroked over and around the tight hole, gently easing the tip of his finger inside.

John sighed as the finger slid inside him. In the weeks since his first experience, he’d become much better at relaxing for penetration. He clenched a little, though, to draw the digit deeper, his breath catching in his throat as Sherlock grazed over his still-sensitive prostate.

“Sorry. Too soon,” Sherlock mumbled. He fucked John with one finger for a few minutes before adding a second. He kissed and stroked John’s thighs as he scissored and stretched him.

After several minutes, he nuzzled into John’s perineum, kissing and lapping at John’s balls as he gently removed his hand to add a third finger. John arched off the sofa at the stretch, quickly settling as Sherlock rubbed gentle circles into his abdomen.

“Easy,” the deep voice soothed. John reached down and clasped the hand on his belly, groaning as he was opened and prepared for Sherlock’s cock.

After a few more minutes, John rolled his hips. “Ready, love.”

Sherlock nodded and stood, stroking his dripping cock. He tore at the small foil packet, head thrown back as John leaned forward and took the condom from him, rolling it over his length. He drew a steadying breath and considered the sofa briefly as he smoothed more lube over himself. “That way, I think.”

John nodded and slid sideways to lay down on his back with his head on the sofa arm. He drew his legs up, bent at the knee. Sherlock dropped one knee to the sofa and braced the other foot on the floor, pulling John’s legs up and onto his shoulders. He tilted John’s pelvis up with both hands and eased himself forward, reaching forward to brace against the sofa.

John moaned as the head of the cock penetrated him. Sherlock made a guttural noise in his throat as he slowly sank into John’s eager body. He held still when he’d bottomed out, holding John’s gaze. There was nothing but the sound of their breathing until Sherlock drew back, when the sound of the sucking friction of his cock easing back out of John’s tight hole made John a bit giddy. Sherlock pulled almost all the way out before thrusting back again. He repeated the movement, continuing this leisurely pace for some time.

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes drooped shut, his lips parted on an inaudible moan. He ran his hands over the smooth, warm surface of Sherlock’s skin as the man began to thrust in earnest; John could feel the strain in his muscles, trying to maintain their position on the sofa as he struggled not to lose his footing on the floor or purchase on the sofa. John, for his part, was beginning to lose feeling in his legs.

“Wait, love, just…” John indicated that Sherlock should withdraw. John lowered his legs and slid sideways out onto the floor. He rolled to his side and reached back for Sherlock. Sherlock dropped to the floor immediately, spooning behind his lover, his arm under John’s one knee to hold it aloft. He penetrated again quickly.

“Oh, god, John,” Sherlock growled. “You are so tight. So hot, so…perfect.”

Within three strokes he had established an easy rhythm—one John knew he could maintain for hours without coming. He turned his head; Sherlock’s moist lips covered his own as the man’s other arm snaked under his head and curled around to caress his cheek and hold him there.

They kissed lingeringly, tenderly as Sherlock slid in and out of John’s body. The lazy, loving sweetness of their coupling was intoxicating; John allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the feel of the man he loved curled around and inside him.

After long minutes, Sherlock arched forward slightly on the down stroke and hit John’s prostate, now no longer quite so over-sensitive. John keened into Sherlock’s mouth as his cock expressed renewed interest in their activities.

John dropped a hand to stroke himself, a little surprised by his renewed erection. “Fuck me harder,” he gasped. “Now, love.”

The pace increased, Sherlock thrusting hard and fast, continuing to hold John’s mouth to his own. He began to pant as his own climax neared. “John, so good. Oh, god, it’s coming.”

John moaned as he felt the stirrings of a second release. He tugged at his aching cock as Sherlock’s body slapped against his bum. “Sherlock!”

John’s body rocked with the force of his second, mostly dry, orgasm. His body reflexively clenched around Sherlock, wringing what almost sounded like a snarl from the man as he drove into John once, twice more. He ground into John’s arse as he came. Sherlock kissed him as his release pulsed inside John’s body below.

Sherlock made no move to withdraw, instead releasing John’s head and snuggling into the back of his neck as he turned to face the other way.

John relaxed in Sherlock’s arms, utterly drained. “Sorry about the floor, love. Just not enough room on that sofa.”

Sherlock hummed a response, easing John’s knee back to the floor. He reached the free hand up and across John to scratch at the nicotine patch on his other forearm. “S’fine.”

John grasped the arm that now circled him and placed an amused kiss on the back of Sherlock’s hand. “I love that an orgasm can render you semi-verbal, even if only for a minute or two. Just think how much aggravation I could have spared myself if I’d known.”

Sherlock snorted.

“It’s better than ‘punch me in the face.’” John pointed out.

“Mmmmm.”

They lay in silence for some time before John finally spoke again.

“Sherlock?”

“John.”

“Would you ever consider telling me?”

“Telling you what?”

“Your past, with sex. Before you decided to give it up as a bad job.” John tried not to sound too inquisitive. “I mean, I know you said there wasn’t much to it, but the things you do…you—” John stumbled. “You’re not crap in bed, let’s just say that. It’s obvious you had some practice. And you know what I got up to, so I just thought...” 

“Is this something couples discuss?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe you would be more comfortable in our relationship if you were in possession of this information?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I have had five sexual partners in total, four prior to you. Two female, two male. I lost my virginity at 14—a summer symposium for young scientists at Cambridge. She was 16. We had intercourse once. It was brief. I achieved orgasm but came to realize much later that she did not. The two men who followed were fellow students at college. I’d determined that knowledge of sexuality would be valuable to me; I had enough offers to choose with whom I would gather data. The first liaison lasted four months. He was enthusiastic, but not overly skilled. The second liaison was—” Sherlock hesitated.

“Not good?”

Sherlock shook his head. “The second man was important to me. My time with him was the nearest thing to a relationship I had ever known until you.”

John wished suddenly that he could see Sherlock’s face. “You loved him.”

“No,” Sherlock replied flatly. “I may have entertained the possibility of an emotional attachment briefly, at the time, but no. I did not.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“I was young, John. He was cultured, experienced, worldly and confident—everything I was not. I was with him for almost a year, off and on. I chose to ignore the indications that he was sleeping with other people. I foolishly gave him money. I allowed him to matter to me, and it was a mistake.”

John puzzled over this. “And he was the last...”

“Until Irene Adler, yes,” Sherlock replied.

“But you didn’t delete any of them.”

“I chose not to delete these experiences because I believed the data still had value—for the work, I assumed. I didn’t foresee…” He paused. “Does it bother you that I am employing techniques in our lovemaking introduced to me by others?”

“No, love, that’s not what bothers me,” John said swiftly. “It bothers me that the only sexual or romantic experiences you’d had prior to me ranked somewhere between relatively forgettable and horrible: your first time, a mediocre college fling, one wanker of a boyfriend and a cold-hearted dominatrix.”

Sherlock shrugged against his back. “It wasn’t important. And I have you now.”

John tugged the arm loose from around him. Sherlock responded and began to withdraw, reaching down to grasp the condom as he did. He pulled back, sliding it off and tying it quickly. He tossed it into the nearby bin and settled onto his side again as John turned to face him.

“I’m so very glad, you know. What Molly said.” John tucked in against Sherlock’s chest and stroked his cheek. “That it’s me. That it will always be me.”

“As am I.”

“I love you.”

Sherlock grinned at him. “Yes, I know. You tell me so, very clearly, almost every time you come. I quite like that.”

John slid his arm under Sherlock’s and wrapped it up and over the taller man’s back to cling to his shoulder while he wrapped his leg up around Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock’s still-outstretched arm bent slightly, to allow his hand to cup the back of John’s head. His other hand wrapped around John’s waist.

“I can’t help myself.”

“Good.” Sherlock tugged John forward and claimed his mouth for another quick gentle kiss, rolling them both as he eased onto his back. He exhaled, making a contented noise as John buried his face in his neck. He looked out over their surroundings. “Stamford has a very comfortable office. Very convenient.”

“About that—are you sure you’re okay about Mike saying those things to you yesterday?”

“Absolutely.”

“Really?”

“It’s fine, John.”

John sighed. “Surprised it was Mike, actually. I thought if anybody was going to give you the gears it would be Harry.”

“She did. She sent me several texts right after you rang her, a month ago.”

“Oh, god.”

“There were many expletives involved. More even than I have heard you use. I had thought her language might improve with sobriety.” Sherlock’s deep voice was very amused. “She threatened violence upon certain parts of my anatomy should I do—or through carelessness or reckless disregard allow to be done—anything to hurt you.”

John chuckled. “Tell you what: I’ll protect you from Harry if you protect me from Mycroft. Every time I go out I’m looking over my shoulder for a black saloon.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock hesitated. “My dear.”

“And how didthat feel?”

“Very natural, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry again for the delayed posting! Any errors, etc., are my own...


	5. Worth the wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which brunch, rug burn, a cricket bat, ballistic gelatine, fingerless corpses and mud all play a part. Who said getting divorced would be easy?

“Harry!”

“There you are,” his sister called back, waiting as he rushed toward her. “I was beginning to think I’d written it down wrong.”

“No, you’re all right. St. James’s Park, 11 o’clock. Just running a bit late; I had to get Sherlock out the door.” John stopped in front of Harriet Watson, giving her a quick assessment. Her five-foot-nothing petite frame was elegantly turned out in a designer suit; the sandy blonde hair hung in neat waves to her jaw and her eyes—lighter and bluer than his own—were bright and clear. 

“You know I hate it when you do that,” she said bitterly. She turned stiffly and began to walk, not waiting to see if John would follow. He did.

“Do what?”

“Look me up and down, looking for any sign of a relapse.”

John bit down on the angry retort that sprang immediately to mind, saying instead only, “Ten years, Harry.” His voice was cold.

Harry stopped and stared at him. “Three years sober, mate,” she countered. “You’re in a lovely mood.”

“So are you. And I have good reason to be.”

Harry quirked a brow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Can we not do this today?”

Harry turned and resumed walking. “Fine.”

“Fine,” John agreed, keeping pace. “So how are you?”

Harry shrugged. “As well as can be expected. My senior partner is a misogynistic arse and I had a blind date on Saturday that caused me to question my sexual orientation.”

“That bad?”

“Scariest woman I have ever met.”

They reached the door of the Peyton and Burne café; a young woman met them just inside.

“Watson, for two,” John said quickly.

The hostess checked the reservation and collected their menus. “This way, please.” She turned to lead them through the restaurant.

They took their seat near the window, overlooking the lake. The waitress appeared immediately and took their drinks order and suggested the special, which—after a brief glance at the menus—they both decided to have. When she left, Harry turned a curious expression to her brother.

“So are you going to tell me what the urgent brunch request is all about?” she asked. “And why did you need to get the boyfriend out the door? Usually he just buggers off on you.”

“No, he…all right, he does sometimes. But usually there’s a good reason.” John pursed his lips. “I—ah—just had a bit of trouble getting rid of him this morning.”

“And why’s that?” John knew Harry was watching him, but he couldn’t look at her. “Ohhhh, I see. Couldn’t keep him out of your pants, then?”

“I don’t think we should have this conversation.”

“You brought it up. Seems like you want to talk about it.”

“No,” John shook his head firmly. “I am not talking about sex with my sister.” He paused as the waitress returned with their tea.

“Humour me,” Harry pressed once their server had departed. “I’m living like a bloody nun.”

John fiddled with his cup. “It’s just...he doesn’t have anything on right now. And when he’s not focused on a case—” John considered this for a moment. “Honestly, I’d have laid even odds against it.”

Harry pulled a face. “Well, colour me very surprised indeed. I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“When he’s working, we don’t usually get up to much,” John continued, unfazed. “At first, I wasn’t sure I could manage, but I think that was just because it was all so new and I couldn’t...you know.”

“Get enough of him,” Harry sighed. She clasped her teacup in both hands and took a long draught. “I do know. Or at least I used to.”

“Now, though, we’ve had several weeks to sort ourselves out. So it’s just the odd time during a case, if he’s particularly wound up or if I—if I’m—”

“If you’re gagging for it?” Harry smirked. “But when he _isn’t_ solving a puzzle, he’s more interested.”

“My god, he’s…just…insatiable,” John whispered. “I’ve hardly left the flat in two days. I’ve got a pulled muscle in my thigh, rug burns on both knees, bite marks in some pretty interesting places and I’m pretty sure my back looks like I’ve been attacked by bloody Wolverine.”

“I would hate you if you weren’t my brother,” Harry muttered.

“Sorry. I know I shouldn’t sound like I’m complaining. I’m not really,” John breathed. “It’s just today. _Especially_ today…”

Harry frowned. “What is it?”

“Mrs. Hudson brought up the post while he was still in bed.” John laid the letter on the table.

Harry picked it up and unfolded it. She scanned it quickly, before giving him a hard stare over the top edge. “You haven’t told him, then.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” John ground out, feeling his temper spike. “I was waiting for word about the decree nisi. Instead, this arrives. I can’t believe she’d do this. She…” He took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “And I’ve been such a prat—I promised Sherlock it was as good as done. I really thought it was just a matter of paperwork.”

Harry harrumphed. “Divorce is _never_ that easy. Look what happened with Clara and me. I left her. She filed the petition with good reason. Should’ve been straightforward; I wasn’t in any shape to put up a fight. Still, we ended up sitting in a mediator’s office shouting at one other about unreasonable behaviour—me, obviously—and infidelity...”

John was stunned. “Clara?”

“Yup,” Harry grimaced. “Right near the end. I know I wasn’t much use to her then, but it still hurt.”

“I wish I’d known.”

“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” Harry shrugged. “I couldn’t have saved my marriage and you couldn’t have saved me. I had to dig myself out.”

“But I should have—”

“You helped me get into rehab when the time came,” Harry said flatly. “If you’d felt sorry for me, I don’t know that you’d have been so firm. And I needed it.”

John looked out the window at the autumn leaves. “I don’t know what to do, Harry. I lied to him this morning; I hated doing it. I had Molly call him from Bart’s with the promise of some interesting dissections just to get him out of the flat so I could come here.”

“Look, this is not an insurmountable obstacle, right? It will slow things down, but there’s still a chance you can avoid a defended divorce. We’ll ring your solicitor and discuss next steps,” Harry offered. She hesitated. “If you’re absolutely certain Holmes is what you want…”

“He’s what I _need_ ,” John said tersely. He leaned back in his chair. “I know that now.”

“But he puts you in danger, Johnny. You have to see that. He’s a selfish bastard.” Harry leaned in. “He faked his own death, for fuck’s sake. He left you! And I wasn’t sure we’d get you back after that. I never liked Mary, but at least she was…relatively stable.”

“And she left me for someone else.” John set his jaw. “We’re not going through this again.”

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Fine. Okay.” She glanced up as the waitress returned with their meal. “Look, let’s just eat and then we’ll decide what we need to do, all right?”

______________________________________

John stood outside the door of 221B, fidgeting with his key.

He was still angry and now he was irritated from his meeting with his sister as well. He knew he needed to gather himself before he went in or he wouldn’t be in any fit state to deal with Sherlock’s reaction. Which he wasn’t sure he would be able to predict.

Sherlock had been very intent on making a permanent, legal commitment to John—he’d made that clear. John knew the man well enough to know this uncharacteristic behaviour was based on two distinct but interconnected emotions, neither of which Sherlock had ever really dealt with before:

1) Love: Though it was rarely stated (Sherlock hated repeating himself) John was in no doubt of how much the man loved him. Yet he knew Sherlock would have lived happily with him forever without benefit of a contract had it not been for the second item.

2) Fear: Sherlock had lost John once; had been forced to leave him and had learned he’d married someone else. As cocky and arrogant as the man appeared, and as oblivious as he could be, John knew he carried the scars of a lifetime’s worth of isolation. People had turned their backs on him because they couldn’t understand him, or because he lacked the sensitivity to recognize how he’d hurt them or failed to meet their needs, or simply because he could be careless and dismissive and tactless. He was not an easy man to get close to and he knew it and, generally, he didn’t care. But John felt the jealousy when Sherlock spoke about his marriage. He heard the regret on the rare occasions Sherlock mentioned the three years they’d spent apart. He remembered Sherlock’s worry on the day they’d become engaged—that if they didn’t get married immediately, John might change his mind. He knew Sherlock knew he was aware of all this, but they did not discuss it.

Still, in spite of the impulses driving them to make their relationship legally binding, they had settled comfortably into the way their deeper intimacy shoehorned with their existing partnership. It fit. And it was good. The subject of his divorce had scarcely come up at all in the six weeks since their first night together.

John sighed, turning the key in the latch. He trudged through the front hall and up the stairs, listening for signs that Sherlock was home. He could hear a strange swishing noise as he approached the sitting room.

He peered inside to find Sherlock barefoot, in his shirt, trousers and dressing gown in the middle of the room—furniture all pushed out of the way—swinging a cricket bat. John stepped inside, his mouth turned up in a fond smile.

“Ah, John!” Sherlock looked up and his expression immediately brightened. He dropped the bat and crossed the floor to grasp John’s face with both hands. His mouth descended immediately for a searing kiss.

John slid one hand up and over Sherlock’s chest to wrap his own dog tags around his fist. He tugged gently as he parted his lips and offered his mouth to his lover. Sherlock stroked inside, teasing John’s tongue with his own. John hummed into the caress as Sherlock began backing him up.

John felt his bum hit the wall, followed by his shoulders. Sherlock used one hand to brace against the plaster. He panted as he pulled back from the kiss, eyes gleaming.

“Hello, my dear,” he rumbled, scrutinizing John’s face.

“Hi,” John replied softly. He placed his free hand at the small of Sherlock’s back. “Cricket bat?”

“Cold case—blunt force trauma. Possible murder weapon. Molly was kind enough to provide me with a skull. I have it setting up with ballistic gelatine in my lab.”

“Lab?”

“Lab, yes. My former bedroom,” Sherlock replied. “We did discuss it.”

“Are you absolutely certain I was at home for this discussion?”

Sherlock considered this. “Nnnno?”

John smiled indulgently. “Will there be blood and brain tissue, or a reasonable substitute?” he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“Little bit.”

“Nothing that splatters in the flat—we agreed.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll do it out the back. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson won’t mind.”

John chuckled a little at that, running the backs of his fingers over Sherlock’s clavicle. Mrs. Hudson would mind very much, he was sure.

“Now then, where were we?” Sherlock settled them tightly together; John could feel the decidedly warm welcome waiting for him in Sherlock’s trousers as it rubbed against his belly.

“Hmm? Oh, this morning...I don’t....ohhhh, yes. Yes, just there.” John’s eyes rolled back and closed as Sherlock began rutting against his rapidly hardening cock.

“Yes,” Sherlock purred.

John groaned, eyes opening again. “No. Sherlock, stop.”

Sherlock ground his own erection against John’s body. “Do be serious, John.”

“I—fuck—I…”John sucked in a deep breath and tried to concentrate. “I need you to focus. Please. I have something I have to tell you and there isn’t much time.”

“I’ll be quick. Promise.” Sherlock laved John’s neck, using his hand on John’s head to tilt his chin to the appropriate angle.

John floundered, losing his train of thought as his cock throbbed inside his trousers. He arched into the friction between them, so very tempted to let go. God, Sherlock was so good…so very, very good.

_And he belongs to me. Forev—shit._

John slid the hand at Sherlock’s back to his hip and braced the other, still holding his dog tags, against the man’s chest. He pushed hard with both, holding Sherlock at arm’s length. The lovely lips were still pursed from kissing John, brows now knitted together in confusion. John fought the urge to kiss away the wounded look on the man’s face.

“Sherlock, I need to speak with you.”

Sherlock studied him for a moment, still breathing hard. At length, he nodded, his expression grim, reluctantly pulling away. He rolled to the side, propping against the wall beside John. They stood that way for a few minutes as John tried to regain control of his own breathing.

He straightened and started toward the sofa. He took two steps then paused; he turned back and held his hand out for Sherlock.

John led him across the room and settled into the worn leather, pulling Sherlock down beside him so they were facing each other.

“Are you planning to leave?”

John froze. “Jes—no! No!”

“You seemed very eager to be rid of me this morning. I know I was short with you last week. You know I didn’t mean anything by it. It was a particularly difficult case and this new DI…I’m not certain I’ll be able to work with him again. And I apologized for the placentas in the refrigerator—I didn’t think they would leak,” Sherlock stared at his hands in his lap. “You didn’t need to have Molly keep me occupied. You could have told me you wanted to see your sister. Unless you had brunch with Harry to decide how to leave me, in which case…”

“No! How could you…oh, bollocks,” John threw his hands up. “Jeanette was wrong: I’m a crap boyfriend even to you.”

“Jeanette was boring. And she was a moron.”

“I am an absolutely shite fiancé, Sherlock.” John leaned in and wrapped his arms around the taller man’s neck as remorse and frustration fought for dominance. Sherlock went rigid, arms still at his sides.

“I am _not_ leaving you, Sherlock. I love you.” John rubbed his back. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock began to unclench. One hand slid up John’s back to rest over his shoulder blade. “What for?”

John pulled back so Sherlock could see his face. “For thinking I could fool you with my ruse this morning. I should know better, shouldn’t I?”

Sherlock nodded, trying to look aloof.

“And I’m sorry about making you worry,” John had to look away. “It’s just—I have some bad news and I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

“Mary is defending the divorce.”

John looked up, a little startled. He smiled then, drawing back and crossing his arms over his chest. “So you’ve been reading up on divorce?”

“Someone pointed out there was a gap in my knowledge.”

“Won’t that clutter the Palace?”

“Not to worry. As soon as this business with Mary is over, I’ll delete it.” He gave John a pointed look. “Won’t need it again, will I?”

John’s heart constricted; he swallowed hard as he shook his head. “Go on, then. Walk me through it. How did you know?”

“You were twisting your ring nervously this morning and again when you got home. I saw the text to Harry about meeting for brunch on your mobile when I came back up for my gloves—don’t give me that look! It’s a perfectly valid means of investigation and if you’re going to leave your phone on the kitchen table while you’re in the bath, then you have no one to blame but yourself.” Sherlock drew a deep breath. “You rarely see Harry, in spite of her improvement, but when you do it is always relating to family business. Most recently, you have seen her twice and on both occasions it had to do with me. She is your only family and she has never approved of me.” He hesitated. “You can see why I might have drawn the conclusion I did.”

John nodded, chagrined. “What tipped it the other way?”

Sherlock tapped the breast pocket of John’s jacket where his solicitor’s letter had started to peek out. “Ivory vellum finish—your solicitor’s letterhead.”

“Of course. So now you know. I told you I would be divorced imminently and I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

“So she is defending the divorce.”

“Actually, she’s filed a cross petition.” John slumped into the sofa, dropping his head back against it. “She isn’t denying the adultery, but she is accusing me of mental cruelty.”

“Because of me.”

“Yes. She’s said that I married her under false pretences, that I never loved her. That our marriage was broken from the beginning by my ‘devotion to a dead lover.’”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock snorted. “You and I were not lovers before I—”

“She’s not wrong.”

“What?”

John smiled sadly. “We may not have been sleeping together, but I loved you even then. I know that now. I didn’t really understand it at the time, but I was so lost after you…fell. Everyone said to give it time and it would get easier, but it didn’t.” John raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I loved Mary—I did. I enjoyed being with her and she made me feel sort of whole again. But it was never…”

“Like this.”

John shook his head. “When I learned about Mark, I’m ashamed to say I was relieved. And then when you came back—after I was done being angry with you—my god, I was so grateful to be free. I thought it was because I knew Mary never would have understood about the mad life I lead with you, which I don’t know that I can do without anymore, to be honest.” He regarded the man beside him. “But, as it turns out, I was glad to be free because I need _you_.”

Sherlock said nothing, but took his hand. He shifted and rested back carefully beside John, laying his head down as well. John watched him, searching for some clue in the inscrutable features.

“I’ve been so stupid, Sherlock. Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you?”

“I promised you we could get on with things soon, and now—who knows how long it will be.”

“You couldn’t have predicted this.”

“I was sure it wouldn’t be a problem; that the divorce was just a matter of sending in some forms. I really believed I would be applying for the decree absolute by now.”

“For a man with trust issues, you have a remarkable capacity for grace.”

“Sorry?”

“In spite of the way the marriage ended, you chose to believe Mary would do the honourable thing.”

John shrugged. “She’s not a bad person.”

“She’s not a good person,” Sherlock countered. “She wants to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?”

Sherlock looked at John, his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “She has nothing else to gain. Your last communication from the solicitor confirmed that she has already agreed to the division of marital assets, which is more than fair considering her infidelity—that will not be impacted by her petition. She has not denied her adultery, so it is not a question of reputation. It’s the only logical conclusion.”

“Logical?” John nose crinkled, feeling the anger bubbling to the surface. “But I tried! She knew how things were—well, as much as I did, then. And she was the one who suggested we get married in the first place!”

Sherlock stroked John’s fingers absent-mindedly. “It will extend her connection with you by several months. She is aware of our relationship—I’m still not sure why you felt compelled to tell her—so perhaps she thinks to create a point of contention between us by involving me in the divorce. You already feel some guilt for the breakdown of your relationship; I assume she intends to capitalize on that.”

John stood. He hesitated near the sofa for a moment, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, then began to pace. “I just don’t understand why she would do this. Everything was so civilized. She told me about her affair. I said I understood. We agreed to go our separate ways.”

“But that was before I came home.”

John paused. It was the first time Sherlock had referred to his return as coming ‘home’.

Sherlock stood and crossed to John, taking him firmly by the arms and holding him still. “I’m no longer a ghost. I am a living, breathing target for her disappointment. Particularly now Mark has left her.”

“How…?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Never mind,” John muttered wearily. He dropped his head to Sherlock’s chest before sliding easily into his arms, grateful for their strength as they wrapped around him.

“I could be wrong, of course. There’s always something,” Sherlock admitted. “And this sort of behaviour is difficult to read; sentimentality is very distracting. I can’t be certain until I meet her.”

“Meet her?”

“You don’t imagine I will allow you to go through this alone.”

John chuckled against Sherlock’s chest. “I appreciate the thought, love, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. You and courtrooms…”

“If called to provide testimony, I will moderate my responses appropriately,” Sherlock assured him solemnly. His phone buzzed. John shifted to allow him to retrieve it from his robe pocket.

“What is it?”

Sherlock’s brow creased as he began to process new information. “Dimmock. He has a case. The two murder victims with the missing fingers? They’ve found another body.”

“You’d better go.”

Sherlock’s look was puzzled. “I had?”

“They need you and it would be best if you had access to the crime scene before the forensics team gets too far.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “I shouldn’t leave you.”

“Of course you should. I’ll be fine.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, I’m just going to be waiting. The solicitor is due to ring me back in a few minutes.”

“I’ll stay with you. I can…” Sherlock looked about for a moment. “I can make tea.”

John smiled. “I don’t need tea. But thank you.” He reached up and kissed Sherlock firmly. “Go.”

“Come with me.”

“I can’t. I need to deal with this.”

“Then I’ll wait for you.” Sherlock grinned as he flopped back onto the sofa. He picked up the paper from where Mrs. Hudson had left it on the coffee table. “Best thing, really; to stay busy. Work, John! Just the thing!”

“You’re going to wait for me?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” He rattled the pages dramatically.

“But you don’t—I don’t know how long this will take.” John shook his head.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

“You’ll be there. Waiting for me.” John watched him with affection and disbelief. “I—all right. Yeah. Fine. I’ll just get this done and we’ll go.”

_________________

At 2:30 that morning, John was dragging himself and his very waterlogged fiancé—coughing and sputtering—out of the water in Queen Mary’s Garden.

They collapsed on the grass, next to the roses, as Dimmock and his DS dragged their murderer out of the mud where John had tossed him.

In spite of their late arrival to the crime scene (which Sherlock quickly pointed out was their killer’s first victim, not his third), Sherlock had managed to identify marks on the wrists above the victim’s (fingerless) hands as scars left by frequent contact with thorns (gardener) and the vegetation embedded in both the killer’s and the victim’s footprints as the fragments of rose hips. These he’d traced to a very rare variety existing only in Regent’s Park. Which, in turn, led to one very disturbed groundskeeper.

“Sherlock?” John rolled to his side to check the man’s breathing. “Are you all right? God, I thought he’d caught your hand with the secateurs.”

“No,” Sherlock coughed. He shoved wet curls out of his eyes. “I’m fine.” He looked at John with a tentative expression. “You?”

“I think I’m going to be okay,” John said as he looked around at the milling coppers and flashing lights and then at his dripping lover. “You were right.”

“Just the thing?”

“Yup,” John said softly, taking his hand. “Thanks for waiting.”

“Not at all," Sherlock replied with a cocky grin. "Some things are worth waiting for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the divorce: When I decided to do a sequel, I realized it was far too boring for John to be divorced already so I hedged. John figured it was as good as done, not counting on a bitter ex. I did a lot of reading about divorce in the UK, but I'm sure I've got some things wrong. Please forgive and squint past those bits :)


	6. Damn it, I’m a doctor not a live-in PA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is naughty, matchmaker John is late for work, and Molly and Greg are...?

John stomped down the stairs from their bedroom, fuming.

“Sherlock! I am not going to ask you again!”

He stopped in the doorway to the sitting room, glaring at the man stretched out on the sofa. Sherlock was wearing only his pyjamas, staring up at the ceiling with his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“I’m going to be late for work. Where are they?”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to ask ag—”

“SHERLOCK!!” John took a deep breath, dropping his head and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I know it’s been a couple of days since the mad gardener…”

“Five days. More than a couple. Is that what you’re going to call it?”

“What?”

“The case. On your blog. Is that what you’re going to call it? Bit pedestrian.”

“Sherlock, for the love—!”

“What about ‘The Rosehip Ruination’?”

“Sherlock bloody Holmes where are my keys?!” John shouted. “I need them to get into the hospital—my access chip is on that key ring!”

Sherlock sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “I don’t see why you need to keep working at the trauma unit. Our private clients provide us with a living that is more than adequate.”

“You think this is only about money?”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock frowned. “But that’s why you took the first job at the surgery…oh, of course. Stupid. This is about pride. You don’t want to be a kept man.”

“I…” John sighed. He strode to the sofa and sat down beside Sherlock. “For a very smart man you can be incredibly thick sometimes. First of all, I wouldn’t be a kept man—I work with you. I help to earn that money.”

“Of course you do. That’s what I was going to say,” Sherlock agreed. “Therefore no need for you to keep working at the hospital. Unless…oh.” He paused, studying John’s face. “Oh, yes. Of course. It is about pride. Professional pride.”

“Yes, sort of,” John replied. “Look, you need to understand this is not some hobby I play at for my own amusement. I’m a doctor, I like being a doctor and I’m good at it. It’s important to me. As important as solving puzzles is to you.”

Sherlock considered this. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“I know. And I think I understand why. For a long time, after we first met, I wasn’t excited about medicine. The surgery was pretty ordinary stuff: flu, colds, pregnancy tests, STIs. I was still looking for the sort of excitement I got from being a combat surgeon.”

“But your shoulder…”

“Exactly.” John smiled. “My hand is not what it was. That specialty was lost to me. I was grieving. If I hadn’t met you—well, the point is, I found something else that made me happy, but medicine was my first love. While you were gone, Mike suggested I re-train, and it’s been good. Very good.”

“I see.”

John looked relieved. “I think maybe you do.”

“Trauma triage gives you the same adrenaline rush as working with me or being a surgeon.”

“Some, yes. It keeps me on my toes. Challenges me. Working at the trauma unit keeps my skills sharp, the same way the journals and the conferences keep me on top of all the latest research and developments.”

“But _why_ do you have to go to _Geneva_?” Sherlock segued into a topic from supper the night before.

“Is that what this is all about?” John asked, nearing exasperation. “You don’t want me to go to the conference in Geneva?”

“No. But I don’t.” Sherlock said, trying very hard to look nonchalant. “Isn’t there something you could attend in London?”

“I have, and I may do again. But this year the one I need to go to is in Switzerland. You know you’re welcome to come with me.”

Sherlock slid sideways and lay back down on the sofa, lifting one bent leg to rest his foot against John’s chest. “I don’t like the Swiss. They’re too…orderly.” He waved a hand. “It’s very suspicious.”

“Only you would think so,” John sighed. “Now look, I can’t stay home and entertain you every time you’re bored.”

“Perhaps I could entertain you.” The voice was pure seduction.

“No.” John shook his head. “Don’t start. I have to go.” He clamped down on the desire that rippled through him with Sherlock’s rich, intoxicating voice. “What about those cold cases you were working on?”

“Solved them.”

“Go and see Lestrade and get some new ones,” John suggested patiently. “What have you done with my keys?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

“Sherlock…”

“Guess.”

“Just tell me.”

“Deduce it, John. Come on—I know you can do it.” He rubbed his foot down the length of John’s torso and into his lap. He wiggled his long toes into John’s crotch and began to stroke along the length of John’s cock.

“Oh, god,” John breathed, his eyes closing. “I’m going to be so late.”

Sherlock’s laughter was deep, throaty and evil. “It’ll be worth it.”

John pulled the foot out of his way and stretched out over Sherlock, settling himself between Sherlock’s thighs and capturing his mouth with a moan. He slid his tongue into Sherlock’s heat, stroking and thrusting. Sherlock nipped his bottom lip before dragging his tongue alongside John’s They sucked on each other as John’s hand splayed over Sherlock’s chest, seeking and finding the peaked nipples through the thin fabric.

John lifted his head, panting as he teased the pebbled flesh with his thumb. “Where are my keys, you mad bastard?”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock groaned, arching up into the caress. “As ever, you see but do not observe.”

Sherlock shifted beneath him, rocking his pelvis into John’s with a pointed look.

“Oh.” John blinked. “Oh, you are such a bad man. I’m going to have to go get those, am I?”

“’Fraid so.”

John licked and sucked at Sherlock’s neck as the man ground against him. “And what else are you expecting me to do while I’m down there?”

“I trust you, doctor.”

Sherlock helped John as he shoved the thin cotton sleep shirt up over his torso. Sherlock loosed his arms quickly and lifted to allow John to tug the fabric over his head. John kissed his way over Sherlock’s bare chest, stopping briefly to suck each hardened nipple into his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers tangled in his hair as he continued downward to nuzzle into Sherlock’s abdomen.

“Getting warmer,” Sherlock breathed.

John slid down, working his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s loose-fitting pyjama bottoms and swiftly dealing with the drawstring.

“Oh, so much warmer.”

John tugged the jersey pyjama bottoms over Sherlock’s hips, the detective wriggling and pulling one knee back to assist in their removal. John swept them off, discarding them carelessly on the floor.

“Oh.” John stared at Sherlock’s rapidly hardening cock: a bright red ribbon had been tied around the root, from which hung John’s missing keys. Their eyes met and John said very seriously, “Mr. Holmes, as your physician I have to advise you that you have an unusual growth on your penis.”

“An apt diagnosis,” Sherlock agreed. “What do you recommend as a course of treatment?”

John nuzzled into Sherlock’s hip and placed a soft kiss there. “I recommend an evacuation of fluids from the region.”

“I concur.”

John continued teasing kisses to Sherlock’s hips and upper thighs, before inching toward the tidy nest of dark pubic hair and the column of flesh at its centre. He licked at the base of Sherlock’s cock, teasing at the edges of the ribbon tied there. His fingers slid up into the warmth of Sherlock’s groin to stroke his scrotum.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, one hand sliding through the strands of John’s hair.

John continued to suckle and taste Sherlock’s cock, until he saw the icy blue-green eyes flutter closed. In one swift motion he’d slipped the bow and the ribbon fell away releasing the keys into John’s waiting palm.

He retreated and stood immediately, not trusting himself to remain too close. “Right,” he panted, struggling to regain control. “Right. I’m very late, so I’m off.”

“JOHN!!!” It was less of a shout and more of a wail that echoed off the walls as John began backing toward the door. Sherlock had sprung to his feet and was stalking John across the sitting room floor.

“NO!” he barked, holding up a hand. He was still dangerously aroused; if Sherlock touched him he knew he would stay.

“John…please!”

“Consequences, Sherlock. This is what happens to naughty detectives who try to make their doctor boyfriends late for work.” John darted for the sitting room door, letting it slam behind him as he ran down the stairs.

John tugged the front door closed behind him, grateful to see a cab passing. He dashed for the curb, dropping his arm as the car slowed, only to have the driver speed up as he got near—giving John a filthy look—and drive away. John was puzzled until he felt the warm breath on the back of his neck. He sighed, chin drooping, eyes closed.

“Please tell me you aren’t standing on the pavement with your cock hanging out,” he said quietly.

The screech of a female patron leaving Speedy’s just then provided the answer before he’d turned. Sherlock was directly behind him: glowering, fists clenched, eyes dark and unruly curls whipping in the breeze.

“That,” the detective bit out, “was _cruel_.”

John shook his head, too angry to begin the conversation in public. He manhandled his fiancé’s gooseflesh, turning him and shoving him back toward the door. “In, get in, damn it.” He pushed the door wide—grateful Sherlock had left it ajar—and wrestled his lanky love back over the threshold.

John shoved Sherlock in the direction of the stairs and made sure the door was locked behind them.

“WHAT in the name of holy flaming hell do you think you’re playing at?” John roared, rounding on the taller man.

“ME?!” Sherlock snarled. “YOU are a cock tease, John Watson!!!”

“You were NAKED. In PUBLIC, for fuck’s sake!”

“I don’t care—”

“I KNOW you don’t care, but I DO. We have to live here, Sherlock. We get enough odd looks as it is.”

“How could you leave me that way?!”

“Jes—Sherlock! We’ve just gone over this! I have a CAREER to think about as well as you!” John rubbed a hand over his brow. “I can’t stay here and shag you every time you don’t have a case!”

“One shift!”

“It’s not one shift,” John said sharply, shaking his head. “I’ve been late half a dozen times since we started sleeping together and I’ve called in sick twice. I love you, Sherlock, but I can’t keep skiving off because I want to give you one. This is too important to me.”

Sherlock was silent. He shuffled, looking somewhat chagrined. “Well, you didn’t have to do _that_.”

“I very nearly didn’t. You have no idea how hard it was for me to pull away.”

“Was it?” Sherlock looked gratified.

“Of course it was, you daft git,” John sighed. “I’m going to be uncomfortable for some time yet. And I’ll probably get hard every time I picture you with that bow around your prick. Do you have any idea how you looked?”

Sherlock straightened a little. “I hoped you would like it.”

“But I didn’t like you hiding my keys,” John reiterated.

Sherlock nodded again. He shivered.

John’s temper receded immediately. He stepped in and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, rubbing his back briskly with both hands. “It’s only a few hours, love. I’m coming back, yeah?”

“Sherlock, John—what on earth—OH!!!” Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat, coming to a sudden stop in the hall as she encountered Sherlock’s naked backside. “Sherlock, what are you doing running about like that? For heaven’s sake, you’ll catch your death!”

Their landlady clucked as John reached for Sherlock’s coat on the nearby hook. He walked around behind the taller man and held the coat as Sherlock slipped his arms in.

“Sorry about the shouting, Mrs. H,” John said lightly.

“What shouting?” she replied. “I’ve just had that nice Inspector Lestrade on my mobile asking me why he’d intercepted a complaint about ‘outraging public decency’ at this address. He couldn’t get through to either of you. And I was having breakfast at Mrs. Turner’s!”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth began to quirk; John was chuckling. “Sorry about that—my phone must be switched off and Sherlock’s been…”

“Well, I can see what Sherlock’s been doing, dear,” the woman said, trying to sound stern. “Honestly, you two. What are you like?”

She turned and bustled back down the hall.

“You realize that Lestrade will make the most of this. And your brother will have some comment once he sees the CCTV footage.”

Sherlock shrugged.

John started for the door then turned back. He grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and tugged him down for a quick kiss. He drew back with a groan as Sherlock tried to hold him.

“John, have we just had our first row?”

“Appears that way. Let me get to work and be waiting for me when I get home—I’ll introduce you to something truly wonderful.”

“What’s that, doctor?”

“Make-up sex.”

________________

 

_Change of plans – J_

_No – S_

_Yes. Date night – J_

_Date night at home. In bed – S_

_Can’t. Meeting MH and GL at wine bar. Sorry. Forgot – J_

_Have fun. May wait up – S_

_U will be there or no make-up sex – J_

_Will not participate in ridiculous scheme – S_

_Not scheme. Put 2 people together, let nature take course – J_

_Nature? Really, John? – S_

_Just seeing if attraction. Get dressed – J_

_Why? – S_

_Because ur not going out bare-arsed again today – J_

_Attraction. Why? – S_

_Because they r friends. Both nice. Both lonely. Trying 2 help – J_

_Tedious – S_

_Quite whinging, get dressed. Pick u up 7 – J_

________________

John fidgeted at their table, checking his watch again. He glanced out the large front windows of the mid-century-modern designed Soho wine bar, craning his neck to check the pavement in both directions.

“Are you going to check the time every four-and-a-half-minutes?” Sherlock had been quiet and subdued since they left Baker Street. Now, though, as they waited for both Molly and Greg to arrive, he was becoming impatient. He flapped the edges of the coat he was still wearing.

“Sorry. Guess I’m a bit anxious,” John admitted. “Never played matchmaker before.”

Sherlock picked up his whiskey and took a sip—he’d ordered it after perusing the wine list with undisguised disdain. “Don’t know why you need to play it now.”

“Greg is a really decent bloke. He’s been in a bad marriage for years, doing his best to make it work for his kids, and now he’s on his own. Molly has had some bad relationship experiences and she’s still on her own. I just feel like…”

“You need to fix them. Physician’s instinct.”

“Maybe.” John shrugged and took a sip of his pinot noir. “Probably won’t work anyway. It’s a long shot. Still, worth a try.”

Sherlock sighed heavily, shifting on the upholstered banquette.

“John!”

They both turned at the sound of Lestrade’s voice. He strode toward the table with a broad smile.

“Greg. Good to see you. Glad you could come,” John said pleasantly.

“Ah, I thought, what the hell,” he said cheerfully, pulling out a chair across from Sherlock. “I mean Molly’s a nice girl. You never know, right?”

Sherlock studied the man on the other side of the table. “In fact, Lestrade is quite intrigued by the possibility of a relationship with Molly. He’s just had his hair cut, wearing a new shirt…”

“Sherlock, enough.”

“Trousers professionally pressed. I seem to recall he did regard Miss Hooper with more than passing interest at our Christmas thing three years ago.” Sherlock stopped, finally glancing at John whose expression was anything but pleased. “Not good?”

“You know it isn’t.”

“Nah, he’s fine,” Greg interjected with a shrug. “He’s right. I suppose I am a bit keen. She’s quite pretty and very sweet. Be nice to have someone to pass the time with—even if it was just as friends. And she understands about the job. Could be good.”

“Hello, everyone!”

John and Greg stood as Molly approached from the front door. She had pulled her long hair into a half-up, half-down style and was casually dressed. She rarely bothered with lipstick—at least not around Sherlock, just to be safe—and tonight was no exception. Her tan trousers and black top were simple but quite flattering (John noticed Greg noticing).

Greg pulled out the chair next to his for her, watching her carefully, almost as though he were seeing her for the first time.

“This is nice, then,” Molly said a bit breathlessly as she tugged her coat off. Greg took it from her and hung it on the rack next to him. Molly sat and hung her bag over the back of the chair. “Bit of a reunion.” She glanced shyly at Greg. He smiled at her.

John looked at Sherlock with a subtle head bob that said _See?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Molly, are you at all interested in a romantic and/or sexual relationship with DI Lestrade?”

“SHERLOCK!!” John’s voice was less warning now than threat. “I’m so sorry. You know what he’s…look, why don’t I get you two something. What would you like?”

Molly glanced quickly at the list over the bar. “I—um—the cabernet sauvignon, I think,” she said gratefully.

“Me, as well,” Greg nodded at John.

John stood to leave the table, hesitating as he shot his fiancé a stern glare. Sherlock was far too busy assessing Molly’s deep blush.

Greg was still looking a bit flustered as he leaned in to address the detective. “That’s not on, Sherlock. You can’t say things like that to people.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “But isn’t that the point of this exercise? Why shouldn’t someone simply ask the question and be done? It could be years before you two get off otherwise.”

“That was out of order!” Greg snapped. “Apologize.”

“But then I have no idea what your ‘appetite’ might be…” Sherlock trailed off as John returned to the table and set two glasses down in front of Molly and Greg. “Perhaps it’s enough for you simply to listen to other people’s amorous activities.”

“Oh, my god,” John groaned. He collapsed onto the banquette beside Sherlock, one hand over his face.

“Oi—I was NOT listening to you!” Greg face darkened. “As soon as I’d worked out what you were doing, I walked the perimeter. And figuring it out wasn’t that easy, thank you very much. Jesus, the noises you were making! I thought you were being tortured.”

“Okay, then.” John cleared his throat. “Maybe we should move on.”

Sherlock released a long breath, re-crossing his legs under the table. “At least I’m having sex.”

“Oh, right. And how long’s that been?” Greg smirked at him.

“Do you know what I love about James Bond films?”

All three men turned and stared at Molly. She smiled gamely and continued.

“I love the opening credits with all the naked girls—NO, sorry, I don’t mean I like the naked girls…not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course…” she flushed. “I just like that when you watch a Bond film you know right away what you’re in for. Lots of action, and that.”

Greg and John stared at one another. John definitely hadn’t seen that coming; clearly Greg was as surprised.

“You like Bond films?” he asked.

Molly took a sip and nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. They’re sexist and sort of silly, but they’re terribly fun. My favourite Bond is still Sean Connery, but I thought Pierce Brosnan was very nice as well.”

Greg grinned. “Connery is the best, isn’t he? All down to business, but he still gets the girls.”

“Dr. No is my favourite.”

“I love Dr. No, though Diamonds are Forever is still absolutely brilliant.”

John watched them for a moment, his mouth hanging open. He could not have predicted that Greg and Molly would have something like films in common. Somehow he’d imagined Molly would go in for nice period pieces with chaps in fancy waistcoats.

“You should know better than to judge by appearances, John.” Sherlock’s voice was a little condescending, but mostly amused.

John probably would never get used to Sherlock’s ability to deduce his thoughts, not completely. He turned to scowl at the man. “Sod off.”

Molly’s head snapped around. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock leaned in and drained the last of his whiskey. “John’s just feeling a little under the weather. I think perhaps I should take him home. We have a growth we need to attend to.”

“A—what…?” Greg looked startled.

“Ah, it—not—nothing serious,” John stammered, moving to follow Sherlock, who was already sliding out of the booth. “Just routine. Should see to it, though. Never want these things to go too long.”

“Uh-huh.” Greg snorted, watching Sherlock sail through the open door.

“Will you two…?”

Greg and Molly regarded each other for a moment. Finally Greg looked back to John. “We’re fine. And John?”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favour?”

“What’s that?” John hesitated, tugging his jacket on.

“Keep his naked arse inside the flat this time, yeah?”

John turned what he assumed would have to be a truly spectacular shade of scarlet as he fled the bar. Sherlock had already hailed a cab; John dove into it behind him without a backwards glance.

He had barely settled when Sherlock’s mouth covered his own.

“Mmmphm!” he struggled a bit, twisting around until he found a better angle. He buried one hand in Sherlock’s hair and tugged him closer. He hummed into his lover’s mouth, wishing they were already home and very, very naked.

“Please! I cannot have any of that in my cab!!” Their driver’s accented English intruded on the pleasant haze John was sinking under. The man waved a frantic hand at them over the seat. “The cleaning is too much—please!”

Sherlock drew back to meet his gaze in the rear-view mirror. He smiled then; it was his brightest, widest, shamming smile.

“I’m so sorry. It’s just, my boyfriend here is an army doctor and, well…”

The cab hesitated at a red light and the driver turned to look at them. His expression softened as he looked at them. “Too long apart. Okay, okay.” The man sighed as he turned back to face the wheel. “Only kissing!” he insisted with a raised pointer finger. “No more!”

Sherlock looked ridiculously satisfied as he faced John, stroking the side of his face. “Yes,” he said softly. “Much too long apart.”

Sherlock kissed him again—it was, by far, the gentlest kiss he had ever given John. His mouth slightly open and pliable, but not demanding. His tongue barely teasing the line of John’s upper lip. John used his hand at Sherlock’s nape to hold the sweet lips to his own for as long as possible. When he finally drew back, he dropped his brow to Sherlock’s.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Take me to our bed and show me how sorry you are for making me suffer. All day.”

John snickered, rubbing their lightly stubbled cheeks together. “Nice try, mate. _You_ need to be making it up with _me_.”

“For wanting you so much? For trying to express my affection?” Sherlock sounded very put out as he smoothed a hand over the softish middle bit of John’s abdomen.

“For trying to make me miss work. For nearly getting arrested for indecency. For insulting Greg and Molly…” John reminded him, in between kisses.

“Boring.”

John went very still. It was the word he’d been dreading for nearly two months. “Right. Yeah.”

“What is it, John?” Sherlock kissed him, lightly resting his hand over the bulge in John’s trousers.

“The thing is, you want me this much right now, but what if it doesn’t last?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

John leaned back to meet his eyes. “I know this is exciting because it’s new, and I think you’re still a little bit worried about me leaving or something equally silly, but I worry, too, you know.” John wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s. “What if I…what if _we_ become boring?”

Sherlock’s expression was pensive as he studied John’s features. “I thought I’d made it clear: I will never tire of you.”

“But you felt that after waiting such a long time, Sherlock. And believing you and I would never be together.” John shrugged. “I just can’t help thinking that a—a fire this…hot…has to burn out more quickly.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “I should want you less?”

“No—I just…” John faltered. “I just mean we have time. We don’t have to spend it all in the first few months.”

Sherlock smirked a little. “But what if it can be this way for as long as we both shall live.”

“That may not be as long as we’d both like, then,” John chuckled. “You may kill me, even if we do take breaks during cases.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock began, nuzzling in to suck at John’s throat. “I shall have to take more care.”

“That’s…yes, good,” John sighed, letting his hands slide over the lean frame, the lack of flesh reminding him that he hadn’t yet asked, “Did you eat anything today?”

“Leftover potstickers,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s skin.

“Is that all?” Bloody dumplings.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“Right. When we’re done shagging I’m doing you beans on toast and tomatoes. And you will eat it.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Non-negotiable.”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

John grinned as Sherlock’s mouth slanted over his. The city passed by the windows unnoticed as they lost themselves in heated kisses.

When Sherlock finally surfaced it was to ask a question. “Are we nearly home?”

John reluctantly opened his eyes and glanced out the window. “Uh, yeah.”

“Thank god.” Sherlock allowed his fingers to dance over John’s erection.

“Fuck.” John whispered, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder.

Minutes later, their relieved cab driver had been paid and departed. Somehow they’d managed to fumble the key into the latch and Sherlock was backing John up the stairs to their flat.

Sherlock’s mouth never left John’s as he divested him of his jacket and unceremoniously dropped his own coat on the stairs. As they turned and mounted the next flight of stairs, John had already begun unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock made a noise of satisfaction and reciprocated. They reached the landing and staggered across it to bang into the sitting room door.

John tore his mouth from Sherlock’s. “Upstairs. Bed.”

“Can’t wait.” Sherlock thrust a hand down the front of John’s trousers.

“Yes—ohhh, god—upstairs. Please.” John’s voice was breathy and weak as he shoved him toward the stairs to their bedroom.

Sherlock grunted his displeasure but removed his hand and turned, dragging John by the shirt behind him. John tripped along up the stairs in his wake.

Sherlock spun as they entered the room, shucking his shirt and tearing at John’s. John leaned in for a kiss as he struggled with his own sleeves. An exploring tongue entered his mouth and he rapidly lost the ability to focus on buttons.

By the time they parted for breath, Sherlock had finished stripping them both—including his own socks. John glanced down and realized his own were still on. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he began backing toward their bed.

John had never removed an article of clothing so quickly. He lunged at Sherlock and drove them both down to the mattress, pinning the taller man beneath him. He stroked over the pale skin he loved as he trailed kisses over Sherlock’s face.

“You are so…gorgeous,” John sighed. He kissed the broad brow, nosing an errant curl out of the way. He hooked both arms under Sherlock’s and curled them around the man’s shoulders. He settled down to hold them tightly together, chest to chest. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock…”

“Fine.”

John placed a soft kiss to each eyelid, enjoying the tickle of the long lashes against his face. He caressed each sharp cheekbone with lips and tongue. “I think about this face all day when I’m at work.”

“Really?”

“And that voice…”

“What about it?”

John kissed the swollen lips. “You sound like sex, Sherlock.”

“I do?”

“Don’t come over all surprised. You’ve been using that honey-dripping, posh purr to get your own way for years.”

Sherlock tasted John’s mouth with a smug smile. “Have I?” he drawled.

“Bastard.”

The snogging became more heated and Sherlock began rutting against him.

“John,” his voice was plaintive.

“Hmm, yes, I suppose I ought to complete this morning’s treatment,” John mused.

“Yes. Yes, please.”

John untangled their limbs and slid down his lover’s body until he was draped over Sherlock’s hip, at a right angle. He grasped Sherlock’s cock and teased it gently with his fingers as he lowered his mouth. He suckled the head for a few moments before swallowing as much of the length as he could—which was considerably more than he’d managed on his very first attempt. But he’d had considerable practice since then. He sucked hard as he drew off and then teased with his tongue as he slid the throbbing cock back into his mouth. Sherlock’s hand came to rest on the top of his head as he began to bob in earnest.

His hand was nestled up under Sherlock’s balls, squeezing and rolling.

“I highly approve of your bedside—ohhhh—bedside—ah, manner.” John chuckled and grazed over his lover’s fraenulum. Sherlock shuddered. “John!”

John allowed his hands to drift down over Sherlock’s perineum, stroking there for some time before moving on to the cleft below. He slid eager fingers in, expecting to be able to circle the sweet pucker he’d been craving all day. Instead his hand met with…plastic?

Sherlock’s cock slipped from his mouth as he craned his neck to see what he was touching.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmmmm…”

John clambered around until he was kneeling between Sherlock’s now widespread thighs.

“What—oh my god…” John sat back on his haunches, stunned. He reached out a single finger to trace around the edges of the black thing currently filling Sherlock’s hole. “What is it? What did you do?” His voice cracked.

Sherlock writhed as John’s fingers grazed over his sensitized flesh. “It’s a silicone plug, John. You said to be waiting for you. I was. I prepared myself, so you could come home and fuck me straight away.”

“And then I told you we had to go out.”

“I didn’t want to waste my efforts,” Sherlock reached down between his legs and touched the visible portion of the toy. “I had purchased this a few days ago—thought, perhaps, given your…interests…this might be enjoyable. You could fill me, plug me up and then come back and play in it later.”

John’s breathing was erratic; he glanced down at his cock, not entirely sure he hadn’t just come from those images alone.

“So you’re…”

“Stretched out, John,” Sherlock moaned as John fondled his balls. “Ready for you.”

“Can I—will it hurt you?”

“Slowly,” Sherlock breathed.

John reached down and began gently tugging on the plug, feeling the sphincter muscles give a little. Sherlock nodded and he continued, slowly easing the toy from the thoroughly lubricated passage.

“OH FUCK!” Sherlock arched off the bed as the widest part of the toy stimulated his prostate on its way out of his body.

“How have you had this inside you all night?” John was sweating now, one hand on the plug, the other stroking his own engorged prick. “How could you sit there…?”

Sherlock rocked as the toy slurped from his winking anus. “With tremendous…ungh…self-control.” Sherlock pulled his knees in toward his chest. “Now—damn it, John. I need you so badly.”

John snapped to attention, lurching forward to hook his elbow under one of Sherlock’s knees and easing his cock into the waiting arse. He slid home, finding only a little resistance. He buried himself and froze for a moment.

“Oh, god, you feel so good.” He rolled his hips, pulling his cock out and back in. Sherlock wrapped one long-fingered hand around the nape of his neck and the other locked onto his good shoulder.

“Fuck me, John. Please.”

John withdrew and drove home, quickly finding a rhythm.

“Yes. So good. My John. My dear. Oh, fuck, _there_ …”

John smiled a little—he’d also improved in his ability to find Sherlock’s sweet spot. “More, love?”

“More. Your huge cock, John. More.”

They fell into silence, John sinking under the sound of his lover’s panting and the slapping of flesh. He continued at a rapid pace, slowing only twice when he was too close.

They kissed, nuzzling and murmuring—John relished making love face to face for this very reason. But this was not the slow, deliberate rise John often favoured: a lovely, leisurely ascent with time for tenderness. This was heat. Sweat. Desperation.

John pounded his lover’s arse relentlessly, beyond turned on by both the morning’s events and more recent developments. “You drive me…right ‘round the twist. You know?”

“Told…you. YES!!” Sherlock’s body bucked into him. “I’m—ah, god! Difficult. You like me…John, harder…please harder! You…like me…anyway.” Sherlock struggled to speak as his body shook with John’s ministrations.

John groaned as Sherlock squeezed tight around him. “Jes—fuck, I do! Oh, god, I do. Love you. So much. Mad, sexy bastard.”

Silence descended again as John shifted Sherlock’s knee back and lifted his hips slightly. He grunted with the exertion but continued fucking his lover without a pause.

But John knew he couldn’t last much longer. He was far too hot, too tight. And Sherlock was too…too bloody much. “Gonna come,” he breathed. “You, too.”

Sherlock was keening softly and his eyes fluttered closed as John’s fist closed around his leaking cock.

“John—I can’t…”

John pumped mercilessly, rolling over the head of his lover’s cock to lubricate his length with pre-come. “Let go, love.”

Sherlock moaned long and low as he tipped over the edge. John tensed as his lover’s body contracted around him.

“Yes!! Oh, yes, love.” He thrust short and shallow as his orgasm approached. He grunted as Sherlock’s body began to uncoil in his arms. His own body tightened, and…

“Sherlock…” John stilled as his body pulsed, opening his eyes to see Sherlock watching him with an indulgent expression. The hand at his neck drew him down to the warm, wet, plump lips. Sherlock sucked on his tongue and he moaned.

John thrust a few more times, enjoying the sensation of Sherlock’s heat around him. He hovered, their faces only inches apart. Sherlock looked very satiated as he carded his fingers through John’s hair.

“Made up?”

“Just about,” John panted with a grin.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

Sherlock had retrieved the plug from where John had dropped it near his hip. He held it up with a decidedly wicked gleam in his eyes. “Would you like to put it back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this sort of got away from me. Sorry about the length and, oh, well, everything :)


	7. Date night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let me ‘splain. No, it is too much. Let me sum up…

“You’re joking.” John’s knife and fork were suspended above his plate.

Sherlock was unconsciously moving what was left of his food around on his own plate with his fork.

“I don’t know why it surprises you. Of the five films you have subjected me to since we began doing _this_ ,” Sherlock gestured around them at the interior of their favourite tapas restaurant. “That one is, by far, the least tedious. Really, John—I had expected better.” The tone was subtly teasing. “But, then again, look at how wrong you were about Molly’s entertainment preferences…”

John sniffed, pulling another breadstick out of the basket on the table between them. He grabbed the last scallop and added some olives to his plate. In an act of reckless optimism, he slipped the last of the patatas brava in front of Sherlock.

A few weeks into their new, intimate relationship, John had realized they would need to plan for doing things together that didn’t involve corpses or any members of the Metropolitan Police (fingers crossed)—or that didn’t simply begin and end with nudity. It would be good for them, he’d argued. They could get to know even more about each other and have some fun.

He’d realized that ‘fun’ was a bit of a stretch, given Sherlock’s tastes and habits. The man did have a tendency to find the most inappropriate things entertaining.

Nevertheless, in spite of a relatively full slate of cases, in a little over eight weeks they had:

  * eaten at a world-renowned restaurant
  * seen a play at the National
  * attended the symphony
  * gone to the wine bar (briefly) with Molly and Greg
  * enjoyed several supper/sofa evenings (a meal out followed by reading together or watching telly or one of John’s favourite films)



“And how is everything tonight?” Angelo had sidled up without either of them noticing. He added a second candle to the table and winked at John. “Sherlock, do you like the chorizo?”

“Hmm? Yes, fine.”

Angelo chuckled. “You should finish that, my friend. You know, your man here might like a little more meat on your bones.”

John smirked. Thus far, they had not felt compelled to share the change in their relationship with anyone other than immediate family and close friends (and his estranged wife, as Sherlock occasionally reminded him). Angelo, of course, hadn’t needed telling; he’d always believed it anyway.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes darting from one to the other. “I believe John is satisfied with my current body mass. He monitors my food intake only because he is concerned for my health. For some reason.”

Angelo patted Sherlock’s shoulder. “He takes good care of you. It’s nice. Someone should.”

With another wink for John he moved on to the next table.

John quickly returned to their conversation, his curiosity piqued. “So you actually want to watch The Princess Bride again.”

“If we must watch a film, yes.”

“Why that one?” John chewed an olive thoughtfully. “I mean…it is a fairly silly story. Not logical at all. And it’s a parody.”

Sherlock shrugged, setting his fork down. “I find the exaggerated stereotypical characters amusing. The rhyming gentle giant, for instance.”

“André.”

“No, that doesn’t sound right.”

“The character was called Fezzik. His real name was André. André the Giant.”

“That was his _real_ name?”

“Well, it was his professional name. He was a wrestler.”

Sherlock shook his head as if to clear that nonsense from his mind. “As I was saying, the film’s dialogue is quite interesting. Everything is stated as though it is intended to be taken seriously, when—of course—it simply can’t be.”

“Parody.”

“Yes, thank you, John. I do understand the concept,” Sherlock drawled. “I was merely underlining my opinion that this film is a very successful example of the genre.”

“Name one other film that is an example of the genre,” John teased. Sherlock glared at him. “Sorry. Carry on.”

“I was not particularly interested in the two romantic leads, however I did find the small man with the speech impediment—”

“Vizzini.”

“Yes. He was very engaging. Though the scene with the poisoned wine was perhaps a little eerily familiar.”

“Oh, right, yeah. I hadn’t thought.” But then, of course, he’d only had a second-hand account of Sherlock’s confrontation with the serial-killer cabbie.

Sherlock wiped his mouth and set his napkin on the table. “And the count with six fingers—a man of science. I liked him very much.”

John grinned. “Just do me a favour and don’t mention any of this in front of Donovan.”

“Why?”

“Well, it is a bit unusual to identify with the villains, Sherlock. And she already thinks you’re a psychopath.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I know, I know.”

Sherlock pointed at the empty plates between them. “Are you planning on having dessert?”

“No. I have some nice dark chocolate at home. Thought we could eat that later.”

Sherlock nodded and stood. “Ready?”

John stood and picked up his jacket. “You know at some point we really should start paying Angelo.”

Sherlock shrugged again. “If it’s important to you, I’ll mention it to him.” He slipped his coat on and turned for the door. John followed, only catching him up out on the pavement.

John waited until Sherlock had pulled on his gloves before extending his hand. Sherlock took it without hesitation. “Tube?”

“If we must.”

They walked in companionable silence in the direction of the underground station.

As they passed an alley, John felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Sherlock slowed his pace. John looked up without turning his head too much and their eyes met. _Trouble_.

He felt Sherlock squeeze his hand twice. _Two men. Where?_

Sherlock tilted his head backwards as if to look up at the stars. __

_Ah, behind us._

Sherlock continued walking as though nothing was wrong, waiting until their would-be assailants got close enough to disarm. Finally, one of them reached out for John’s shoulder.

John spun on instinct, one fist ready and the other hand in a defensive position. He’d startled the man, which was all for the good. However, it turned out the fellow was carrying a knife. John blocked the thrust, sending the weapon skittering out into the street, and landed a solid right hook.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock assessing his own attacker. The man had pulled out a collapsible baton.

John dodged a blow to his head and managed to prevent his attacker from getting at his eyes.

“Right. That’s it, you bastard.” He launched himself at the man, landing them both on the pavement. Three more hits and John had the would-be mugger on his face, one arm pinned under John’s knee.

“You’ll stay down if you know what’s good for you.” He glanced up to see how Sherlock was doing and was surprised to see him…fencing.

Sherlock had picked up a piece of pipe from somewhere and was engaged in an elegant (for his part) bout with the young man and his baton. Sherlock parried a wild lunge and responded with an advance of three steps. He attacked quickly—three beats to his opponent’s weapon knocking the young man off balance.

With an unexpected flourish, the youth stepped back and tossed the baton into his right hand. Sherlock’s smile was both deeply amused and triumphant as he did the same.

“You daft…amazing…” John muttered, unable to control the smile on his face.

The young man rallied admirably, but in the end he was no match for Sherlock’s skill.

John watched, entranced, as with two swift movements Sherlock disarmed his foe—flipping the baton out of his hand and up into the air—and immobilized him with a sharp thrust to the solar plexus. The young man collapsed on the street gasping for air.

John was almost giddy with pride as he pulled out his phone and dialled Lestrade.

Twenty minutes later, the officers Lestrade had sent were packing the two young men into their car. Sherlock was arguing with one of them about the reason for the attack. John dragged him away with a promise (on Lestrade’s good name) that they would be in to make their statements first thing.

Sherlock straightened his coat and scarf, striding away from the scene with his head held high. John took his hand again as they walked.

“So,” John started.

“So?”

“Fencing, then.”

“I’m sure I must have mentioned it.”

“Don’t think you did.”

“Public school, John,” Sherlock replied. “It was one of the few athletic options that didn’t involve someone perspiring on me.”

“Right. Course.”

There was a comfortable pause as John digested this. Naturally, his mind wandered to some of the sweatiest school athletic activities he knew. And Sherlock. And Sherlock with him… _Oh, god_. He took a deep breath as the blood rushed to his groin. Perhaps they should skip the film tonight.

“We could try that if you’d like. And yes, we should.”

John stopped abruptly, shaking his head vehemently. “No. Just…no. There is no way you’re going to convince me you knew what I was thinking. Not this time.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock huffed. “It wasn’t much of a stretch from ‘sweaty boy’s school athletics’ to wrestling. We _had_ just talked about that Anatole…”

“André.”

“…the Giant person. So with you fantasizing about us rolling about on the floor in our pants so you can try and pin me beneath you, it was hardly difficult to deduce that you might want to pass on watching the film.”

John pursed his lips. He continued toward the main cross street at a break-neck pace, dragging Sherlock behind him. “Need a taxi. Now.”

“I might even have a singlet tucked away somewhere amongst my disguises. I can look when we get home, if you’d like.” The deep voice was amused.

John stopped again and turned to face Sherlock.

“Would you like me to wear it for you?”

“I—” John squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Sherlock turned John’s hand in his gloved fingers and drew the now-bruising, bare knuckles to his lips, meeting John’s eyes.

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses. Oh, and I am aware of the gay-wrestling-porn thing, but I decided that the boys (given Sherlock's lack of curiosity about sex prior to John and John's newbie-ness) wouldn't be :)


	8. Family ties, mile highs and green, green eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a conference to get to (with his future brother-in-law's help) but he gets a surprise on the plane...

Mycroft Holmes stood in the middle of the sitting room, watching as John darted from place to place.

“Maybe…”

“Something missing?” Mycroft asked blandly.

“Passport.” John stopped in the middle of the floor and glanced at the mantle. He walked over and lifted the skull, flipping quickly through the stack of papers beneath. “Bollocks.”

“Not where you left it, then?”

“I may not be a Holmes, but I did think to check there first.”

“Ah.”

“'Ah’, what?”

Mycroft’s look was a touch sympathetic. “He doesn’t want you to go.”

John shook his head. “I thought he’d come to terms with it, but he hasn’t spoken to me in two days. Not all that unusual, given that he’s working, but I think we’re firmly in sulking territory now. You can try the lab if you’d like, but he hasn’t unlocked the door for me.”

“Lab?” Mycroft peered in the direction John indicated. “You’ve allowed him to turn his bedroom into a lab?”

John shrugged. “At least I know where he is some of the time.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. “I’ll send him a text.”

John ran his hand over his brow as he looked at his watch. “Bloody hell, I’m going to miss my flight at this rate.”

“I could run you to the airport. If you’d like,” Mycroft offered cautiously.

“I—actually, that would be great.”

Mycroft nodded in reply then surveyed the room. “He finished the case early last night. And your passport is in his desk.”

“Wha—last night? But he didn’t come to bed.” John scowled. “How?”

“Violin.” Mycroft pointed. “Patches.” He pointed again, this time to the sofa. “Coffee.” He nodded in the direction of the kitchen and then pointed to Sherlock’s chair. “Laptop.”

John looked at each item in turn, puzzling. “Violin…oh. Still packed away; he didn’t play last night. And the patches? Right. The two extras he was wearing are now stuck to the sofa cushion. There are only two dirty coffee mugs. Of course. Should have caught that. He goes through at least five cups a day when ‘the game is on,’ and he uses a new mug each time. I should know; I do the washing up.” John sighed, regarding the final clue. “Laptop, then.”

“Would you like me to—” Mycroft began. He paused when John held up a hand.

“It’s powered down, not in stand-by, which he doesn’t do unless he isn’t planning to use it for at least four hours.”

“Bravo.” Mycroft inclined his head. “You’ve learned far more from him than I would have thought possible.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” John said sarcastically. “And I checked his desk. It isn’t there.”

“Did you happen to look in the top right drawer?”

“I did.” He crossed to Sherlock’s desk and pulled open the drawer in question. “See? Nothing in here except this old copy of…” John trailed off as he stared at the book in his hand. “Why the hell does he have a ratty copy of _The Life of Nelson_ in his desk?”

“Our paternal grandfather had a fascination for the high seas and Sherlock was quite fanciful about it as a boy. Pirate, remember?” Mycroft wagged a finger to indicate John should open it. “It was one of his favourite hidey-holes until he’d deduced I knew about it, when he was 5. After that, he took to burying things in the garden until he went off to school—very alarming for everyone.”

John flipped the book open; it fell to a natural break in the binding. There, in a space carved out of the pages, was his passport. Along with two keys he did not recognize, four of Lestrade’s ID badges and a lock of his own hair. John removed the passport, wondering as he brushed the small tuft when it was that his hair had been harvested.

“How terribly sentimental,” Mycroft quipped, looking smug.

“Don’t,” John warned him, a hand reflexively going to the place where his hair met his collar. “Not about this.” He closed the book and returned it to the drawer.

“Apologies.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

John grabbed his bag and jacket. “Could you—” He nodded toward the corridor. “Just a minute? I’ll be right down.”

“Of course.” With an enigmatic smile, Mycroft departed.

John listened to the tapping of the umbrella echoing up the stairs, waiting until he heard the front door close. He walked purposefully to Sherlock’s door and knocked. “I know you’re done with the case, Sherlock. Let me in.”

There was a long silence. John could hear shuffling footsteps, but they didn’t get any closer.

“Fine, but I’m still going.”

John started to walk away. He took two steps and then turned back. He hesitated. “It’s only three days, love. I’ll be back before you know it.”

When there was no response, John placed a hand flat against the door, wishing he could touch Sherlock before he had to go. “Try and stay out of trouble, yeah? Please eat something every day. And be careful with the patches—you’ve been going pretty heavy these last few cases.”

Still nothing. John nodded to himself. “Right, well, all the information for the flight and the hotel in Geneva is on my laptop if you need it. I’ll text you when I’ve arrived.”

Sherlock’s footsteps stopped. John paused, not wanting to push, but feeling hollow at the idea of leaving without seeing him. “Don’t do this, Sherlock. I don’t want to leave this way. Open the door.”

John waited as long as he dared, tapping his fingertips on the door with a sad smile before finally moving away.

“I love you.”

John trudged down the stairs and out onto the pavement. The rear door to Mycroft’s waiting saloon was open.

“He does this,” Mycroft said softly, not looking up from his phone as John slid inside, settled into the seat beside him and pulled the door closed.

The car pulled away from the curb; John cast one last look at the front door, just in case.

“Does what?” he asked. “Steals his lover’s passport? Lets his fiancé leave for three days without saying goodbye? We both know he’s never been in this situation before. There’s hardly a precedent.”

“Not specifically, of course, no,” Mycroft agreed. “But we both know my brother has a tendency to…fixate. And we both know this isn’t the first time he’s tried to prevent you from going somewhere without him. He simply doesn’t respond well to having his playthings taken away.”

“He could have come with me this time. I asked him to,” John snapped, focusing his attention out the window. “And I am not a toy, Mycroft. Or an addiction he can’t kick, or a puzzle he can’t solve, or a curiosity he doesn’t know how to categorize.”

“Perhaps not _merely_ any of those…”

“No.” John shook his head. “He loves me.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. He watched the city go by through his own window. “I’m not entirely certain my brother understands what love is.”

“And you do.”

“Touché.” Mycroft’s smile was brittle. “But are you prepared for the consequences if it turns out he doesn’t?”

“What’s that mean when it’s at home?”

“What if he can’t sustain a long-term romantic relationship?”

John ground his teeth. “He can and he will.”

“You’re very adamant.”

John turned his gaze from the window. “You’ve known him longer than I have, so I know your concern is based on history. But this is different.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s me and I’m not letting him go. No matter what.”

Mycroft smiled then. It was broad and almost entirely without cynicism—John had never before seen anything like it on the man’s face. “Taliesin Holmes was Sherlock’s favourite person on earth until his death. Our grandfather understood my brother completely: tolerated his moods, praised his intelligence and chuckled at his more eccentric tendencies. And told him off when it was necessary, which was relatively frequently, as you can imagine. He was the only person Sherlock has ever truly heeded. Until you.”

John smiled too. “So…”

“So.” Mycroft studied him for a moment. “Welcome to the family, Dr. Watson.”

“Ta.” John smirked, feeling a little uneasy at the idea that he would soon be related to the most powerful man in the country. Mycroft didn’t scare him any more than Sherlock did; still the impact of the elder Holmes’ nature and influence was not to be underestimated.

For the first time, John really did try to imagine the Christmases. He shuddered.

“It won’t be easy,” Mycroft continued. “My brother can be so very trying at times, as you know. However, I am always available should you require assistance.”

John nodded. “Yes, well, I suppose that could come in handy, now I know I can trust you.”

“Of course. And again, thank you for your understanding with regard to my role in Sherlock’s deception. I did advise against his plan for Moriarty.”

“I know,” John said. “And I…appreciate it.”

Mycroft merely inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“So what did you want to see Sherlock about anyway?”

“Oh, a little matter I would like him to look into for me. His assistance would save me a great deal of time and trouble. I’ve just texted him the details…”

Mycroft’s phone buzzed. He clicked through to the new text and read it quickly, his brows rising. He glanced up at John, his face inscrutable, before turning back to his phone.

The remainder of the drive was very quiet. John allowed his mind to wander, starting a bit when Mycroft finally announced, “Ah, look, almost there. And in record time, too.”

The driver moved through traffic toward the London City Airport passenger drop-off area, where he pulled in next to the curb. John threw the door open and grabbed his bag. Stood on the pavement, he turned back to close the car door behind him.

“What did it say?” John asked. Mycroft stared out at him, his eyes wide in an attempt to feign ignorance. “Don’t do that. I hate it when the pair of you do that. What did it say—the text from Sherlock?”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “I…I cannot say.”

“Family.” John shook his head. “Splendid. Anyway, thanks for driving me.”

“Safe journey, John.”

John closed the door with a roll of his eyes. “Bloody Holmeses.”

Some thirty minutes later, John had checked in, filed through security and begun walking to his gate. And he could no longer resist the urge to get his phone out. The man may not be speaking to him, but he always responded to texts.

> _Case. Who did it  – J_

There was a long pause before an answer finally came through. John was suddenly aware of the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders as it released a little.

> _The mother – S_
> 
> _Brilliant. Miss u already – J_
> 
> _Only 3 days  – S_
> 
> _Bring u chocolate  – J_
> 
> _No. Bring watch – S_

John chuckled as he arrived at the waiting area outside his gate. He looked out over the sea of bodies with dismay. It certainly didn’t pay to be late to the airport; he couldn’t see an available seat anywhere. He glanced about quickly for a post or section of wall to lean against when a hand started waving at him from the centre of the crowd.

He watched the woman for a moment. She was younger than he was, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with long, dark hair. He checked behind him for the person she must have been signalling to (he certainly didn’t recognize her). Soon enough, though, it became apparent that she was, in fact, gesturing for him to join her.

John hesitated, not entirely certain what he was getting in to. It was likely the flight would be boarding within fifteen minutes but it seemed rude not to accept her invitation. He approached the woman casually, with a polite smile. He stopped in front of her as she indicated the empty chair next to her.

“Apparently I was saving this just for you,” she said lightly.

“Right. Well, thanks very much,” John replied. He spun and settled, dropping his bag between his feet and immediately turning back to his phone.

> _Wish u were coming with – J_
> 
> _Hate planes – S_
> 
> _U do not – J_

“The waiting is always the worst part, don’t you think?” John’s neighbour remarked suddenly. She was leaning toward him, her long hair brushing over the sleeve of his jacket. John met her eyes (dark brown) suddenly feeling a bit awkward. It had been some time since he’d been in this situation.

“I suppose so, yeah,” he replied, the polite smile still in place.

“I’m Rebecca,” she continued, extending her hand. “Dr. Rebecca Woollery. And you are Dr. John Watson.”

John’s mouth fell open as her hand closed around his own. “I—uh, yes, but…”

She waved her other hand dismissively. “It’s okay. We haven’t met or anything.”

John took a deep breath, suddenly relieved. He’d had visions of an angry confrontation with a woman he’d shagged sometime in his long ago. “Oh, right. Good. So, uh, how do you know me?”

Rebecca leaned back, looking very pleased. “You don’t think the famous physician detective has fans?”

“Oh, the blog,” John chuckled.  “But I’m not really a detective. More like a…consultant…to the consulting detective.”

“You’re more than that, I think. Sounds like you sort of keep him together.”

John thought about that. “I suppose I do, in a way. He’s a genius, but there are some things he’s not terribly good at. People, mostly.”

“So I gathered.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you become interested in my blog?”

“I read about you in the paper: the internet phenomenon, crime-fighting duo. I was intrigued by the fact that you were a doctor as well, so I started following your blog,” she replied. “It was dreadful, what happened. What they did to him—to both of you—was unconscionable. Still, I was stunned when the papers reported his suicide. And then it was all a sham! What a thing!”

John’s gut tightened. “It was…” he started. “It was a very difficult time. I didn’t know, you see.”

“I’m so sorry,” Rebecca looked stricken. “That was terribly insensitive of me.”

“It’s all right. You weren’t to know.” John glanced down as his phone vibrated.

> _Hate confinement. And boredom – S_

His heart sank. He’d never really stopped to consider how stifling, how excruciating, air travel must be for the man. It certainly explained why he took the train whenever possible. He suddenly found himself wondering how Sherlock had managed on the flight to Minsk. Or Tibet, for that matter. He must remember to ask—best to be prepared for the future.

John glanced up to find Rebecca watching him with undisguised curiosity.

“It must have been awful, thinking you’d lost your friend. I can’t imagine,” she began. “But you—you were quite busy, while he was away, I think. You re-trained, didn’t you?” Rebecca bit her lip at John’s wary expression. She looked as though she’d just given something away. “I’m really not a stalker. I’m not. It’s just…” She broke off with a sigh. “I’m a trauma doc as well. I have a good friend at Royal London; he told me all about you joining their staff. I was so excited when I heard you’d joined our ranks.”

“Oh, right. So you’re off to the conference as well, then?” John couldn’t help but be flattered. That his career should have been of note to anyone but him—and maybe Harry—came as a bit of a shock. But a nice one.

“I am,” she agreed brightly. “I’m so pleased we’ve met. I hope we’ll have the chance to chat.” She hesitated, resting her hand on his forearm. “This may be a bit forward, but perhaps we could share a meal while we’re there?”

“Uh, well, that would be nice, but…” John raised his left hand. “To be fair.”

Rebecca’s face fell immediately when she saw the ring. She rallied quickly, though. “Just my luck,” she said with a shrug. “Most interesting man I’ve met in years and he’s already spoken for. I do appreciate you being so forthright about it. That’s a rare thing these days. She’s very lucky.”

“He,” John said, smiling. “And I’m very lucky, too.”

Rebecca’s head cocked. She thought for a moment before her eyes widened. “It’s not…no, really?” She dropped her voice and leaned in “But after everything…and I thought the press made it all up!”

“Well, technically, they did,” John said, matching her subdued tone. “Things changed after he came back. I was very upset with him, of course. But I was just so bloody happy he was alive.”

“That’s so romantic!” Rebecca gushed. She squeezed his arm. “You thought you’d lost him forever, only to realize what he meant to you, and then he returned! Better than _any_ Mills & Boon, that is.”

“Well, it was…something like that,” John said sheepishly. “We are trying to keep this as private as we can, though…”

“Oh, of course.” Rebecca sighed heavily. “I will admit to my own disappointment—and to disappointment on behalf of all British women. Still I can’t help but be delighted for you. Was that him? Just now?”

John nodded.

She gave him an assessing look. “He’s very attractive.”

John blushed a little. “Yes, he is.”

“But quite a handful?”

“You don’t know the half,” John chuckled. “I love him, but he can be such pain in the ar—”

John was cut off by the call for boarding of their flight. Rebecca stood immediately and joined the queue. John followed her.

“I sincerely hope we can have supper some night, Dr. Watson.”

“John, please.”

“It’s been such a pleasure meeting you, John. I’d love to hear more about your work, and your partner. And I hate eating alone.”

“It’s been lovely meeting you, Rebecca. I would be delighted.”

“Do you have transport planned for the other end?” she asked. “Perhaps we could share a taxi to the hotel.”

“Sounds great,” John agreed.

Rebecca turned with a broad smile, readying her documents for the gate. John checked his phone again and sent one last message.

> _Have to switch off. Boarding. Luv u – J_

_________________

John stretched and stood. Normally he would have preferred to wait and use the loo in the airport after landing, especially for such a short flight, but the coffee he’d had during the complimentary beverage service had gone straight through. He navigated the aisle and made his way to the lavatories at the rear of the plane. Fortunately, there wasn’t a line.

He pushed the narrow folding door open and slipped inside, shutting and latching it firmly behind him. He was right in the middle of evacuating his full bladder when he heard the latch behind him.

“Oi, someone’s in here already,” he said loudly enough to be heard. The door rattled. “Hey—occupied. Just wai—”

The next seconds passed in a blur. John heard the door sliding, but before he could turn, found himself pinned in place. A hand covered his mouth the same moment he heard the door snap shut and re-latch. _What the hell?_

He struggled against the body that pushed his shins against the cold metal toilet bowl. An arm encircled his waist and joined his own hand on his cock, covering his own fingers.

“Mmmmphm!”

“John,” a familiar voice whispered in his ear. John stilled, his breathing calming almost instantly. _Sherlock?_ “Be very quiet, my dear. We wouldn’t want the others to know what we were up to, would we?”

 _Up to…? Oh! Oh, god!_ John let his head roll back against Sherlock’s shoulder. _He wouldn’t, not here. He wouldn’t._

The long fingers urged his hand down the length of his cock and back up again.

“Let go, John. I know you need to.”

The stream of urine that had come to a halt at the intrusion resumed, albeit with some increasing difficulty as blood rushed to the area. The perverse pleasure of pissing with Sherlock’s hand on his cock made John’s knees buckle. Using the toilet with your boyfriend in the room shouldn’t be a turn on, he thought wildly. But the illicit nature of it—where they were, Sherlock’s dramatic appearance, the promise of something very, very wicked indeed…John’s breath hitched as he anticipated what the strong, elegant hand on his cock might do next. He leaned heavily into Sherlock’s body.

“All done?” Sherlock asked finally. The whisper was a little hoarse; John could feel the reason against his bum. “Excellent. Now let’s discuss the woman in the airport.”

John’s brow furrowed. _Rebecca?_

Slowly, gently, Sherlock eased their hands back down the length of John’s cock, sliding over and around the head. “Who is she, John? Why was she touching you?”

John’s body responded to the familiar touch and voice, his cock throbbing beneath their twined fingers.

“Have you missed women? Is that it? Breasts? Long hair? Soft, rounded bodies? Is that what you need, John? Ah, ah—no groaning. Don’t want to give the game away.”

John stifled the noise in his throat. He shook his head awkwardly. Sherlock increased the pace of their pumping hands even as he ground against John’s hip.

“Do you want her? Is that it? You think she can make you feel the way I do? Would she do this for you, John?”

John shook his head again, feeling ridiculously light-headed. _Oh, god!_ He was being fondled by his lover in an airplane lav and he was enjoying it. What the hell did that say about him?

And then, as Sherlock teased their fingers over his dribbling slit, he found himself beyond caring.

He panted through his nose as he began to thrust into the tight circle of their joined hands. He reached out and braced his free hand against the wall in front of them as Sherlock rubbed mercilessly over his fraenulum.

“She can’t have you, John.” Sherlock rasped. “You belong to me. Your mind, your body—all of you. I want all of you. She can’t have you. I won’t give you up.”

John swallowed another groan. _Oh, god_ , he was so close.

Sherlock felt him tense. “Yes, come in my hand. Come for me, John. Just for me.”

John tightened his own grip and dragged both their hands back to the root of his cock for shallow strokes as his body began to pump seed out over the toilet and the wall behind it. He shook with the force of the strongest, filthiest orgasm he’d experienced to date (there were always new milestones with Sherlock Holmes).

Sherlock nuzzled into his neck, murmuring his name. He began to remove his hand from John’s mouth, but not before a hot, wet tongue darted out to lick his palm thoroughly. John felt the shudder ripple through the taller man and experienced a rush of triumph.

Sherlock pulled back and pressed himself into the corner between the cubicle door and the wall, attempting to make room for John to turn. John grabbed at the loo roll and made an effort to clean himself and the toilet before finally tucking himself away and wiggling around. He washed and dried his hands quickly, noting that there was still a trace of a tremor. He was absolutely wrecked.

“Excuse me please, sir,” the airhostess called through the door. “It is time for you to return to your seat. We are preparing to land.”

“Yes, thank you,” John called back. He cleared his throat. “One moment.”

He twisted to confront Sherlock, trying to gauge what his reckless genius might be thinking. The man’s face was flushed, but his brows were raised in defiance.

John pursed his lips before leaning in to whisper, “Later, when we reach our hotel room, you and I are going to have words about this. Two of them will be ‘wanker’ and ‘stupid’. I’ll leave you to deduce the rest. I’m going out now; you can follow in a few minutes.” He buried a hand in the dark curls and pulled the man down for a kiss every bit as pleasantly dirty as John felt. He parted their mouths with an audible ‘smack’. “And don’t forget to wash your hands.”

___________________

John paced in the luxurious hotel room wearing only the complimentary bathrobe. It had been four hours, and still no Sherlock.

After their airline adventure, John had returned as casually as possible to his seat. Minutes later, Sherlock had breezed past him toward the front of the cabin and executive class.

By the time they had landed and John had fought his way through the other passengers, Sherlock had disappeared. John wouldn’t have thought it possible for even the great detective to make himself that scarce that quickly in a busy airport, but there it was. John had been left to share a taxi with Rebecca as planned and leave instructions and a card key for his wayward lover at the hotel front desk.

After a scorching shower and considerable grooming, John had turned on the fireplace and tried to enjoy his room service meal with the view of the lake.

But that had been over an hour ago.

John spun at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. He crossed quickly to the door and threw it open. Sherlock stood just outside, hand raised to swipe his key.

“And you’ve been where, exactly?”

Sherlock remained in the corridor, studying the pattern in the hotel carpeting. “Mycroft’s thing.”

John sighed, reaching out to tug the man into the room. Sherlock obliged reluctantly, stumbling a bit as John dragged him forward. He walked them to the upholstered chairs near the fire and sat Sherlock down in one of them. John straddled his legs and sat on his lap. He pulled one of Sherlock’s sleeves until the man cooperated and removed his arm from it. They repeated this with the other sleeve while Sherlock glared at him.

John shoved the coat off Sherlock's shoulders and braced himself with his hands against the chair back. “One of you could have told me Mycroft’s case was in Geneva.”

“Warned him not to say anything. I wanted to surprise you,” Sherlock gestured wildly with the ‘surprise’.

“Well, you certainly did that.” John admitted. “So his…whatever it is…was enough to get you on a plane.”

“No,” Sherlock mumbled. “I had to come anyway.”

“Really,” John said sceptically. “Why’s that?”

“He helped you find your bloody passport.”

John couldn’t control the rush of pleasure that tingled right out to his fingertips. “I see.” He leaned in a little. “Did you get what he needed?”

“Hmmm. Swiss UN aide is trafficking in fissionable materials using a UK company.” He gave John his best I-told-you-so face.

“I’m quite sure he’s an anomaly. The Swiss are lovely.”

Sherlock grunted.

“Fine. Tell me this, then—on the plane, how did you unlatch the door?”

Sherlock smirked.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock said.

“Probably best I don’t know anyway. Plausible deniability.” John kissed him lightly.

Sherlock reached out a hand and ran his fingers through John’s hair. “You hair looks funny.”

“Hmm? Oh, I towelled it dry after my shower.”

“It’s sticking up,” Sherlock noted. “Just...there.” He smoothed his palm over John’s head.

“Good thing I have you to sort me out,” John said with a fond smile.

Sherlock’s face fell, averting his eyes. “I thought I was a stupid wanker.”

“Well—”

“I didn’t plan it, you know. The thing. On the plane. And no one noticed, anyway. And YOU...”

“What?”

“You were flirting with that—that— _woman_!”

“No need to make her sound toxic. Rebecca is a perfectly lovely girl. And I wasn’t flirting with her.”

“She _touched_ you!” Sherlock insisted, demonstrating. “And her hair was on you.”

“So?”

“And you smiled at her. Repeatedly.”

“I was being polite. That’s all.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed. “She had no business…”

“Talking to me?”

“No! And stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” John asked innocently, continuing to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. “Dr. Woollery was on her way to the conference, as was I. And she happens to be a fan of my blog.”

“Oh, a fan. That’s priceless. So I can expect a parade of giddy autograph seekers through the flat, can I?”

“Have you ever seen any before?”

“No. Stop _doing_ that!”

John had finished with the buttons and had spread the shirt wide. He was tracing a path from freckle to freckle on Sherlock’s chest. “So never having seen any of my supposed fans before, you assume I have more than the one?”

“I—” Sherlock paused. “I don’t know. But you might. And I don’t…I can’t…”

“What?”

“I don’t want anyone else to…to…”

“You’re jealous.” John leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s still parted lips.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are,” John kissed his cheek, palms grazing over peaked nipples. “And it’s so incredibly sexy.”

Sherlock froze. “It is?”

John opened his mouth over Sherlock’s, plunging his tongue between his lover’s plush lips as he ground his hips down into the man’s pelvis. John could not remember ever being this aroused. Between the incident on the plane and the anticipation while waiting for Sherlock to turn up at the hotel, John was already overheated. His semi-erect cock came to attention immediately as Sherlock’s hands slid over his waist to pull him closer.

“You’re not angry with me?” Sherlock managed finally, when they parted to breathe.

John shook his head, licking his lips. “But you are a stupid wanker.”

Sherlock’s face darkened. “Why?”

John crowded him into the chair back, parting his robe. “For thinking I could ever again want anyone but you.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell slack. “Oh.” His eyes narrowed a little as he processed this. “You didn’t mind. About the uhm...?”

“That,” John began softly, “was the hottest _fucking_ thing I have ever experienced in my life.” He dragged his tongue over Sherlock’s exposed throat.

“So you’ve never done anything like that before?” Sherlock sounded quite pleased.

“Nope.” John sucked Sherlock’s earlobe into his mouth. “Loads of things I’ve never done. Didn’t even know I wanted to, until you. Which puts me in mind of something you suggested two weeks ago.”

Sherlock’s hips arched toward John now, his nostrils flared as they rocked together. His eyes widened. “Suggested? I—ohhh!”

John whispered in his ear now, mimicking Sherlock’s hoarse whisper from the airplane lavatory. “I wasn’t sure before, but, oh, god, Sherlock…I want you to. So very badly,” He nuzzled into the long neck. “I’m ready for yo...”

John’s voice trailed off as Sherlock’s deceptive, sinewy strength propelled them both to their feet. John raced for the bed, shedding his robe on the way. He threw himself onto the king-sized mattress and turned just in time to catch Sherlock who landed half on top of him. John clung to him, arms wrapped about his neck and legs around his waist as they ground their lips together.

“Want you so much,” John mumbled into his lover’s mouth.

“Mmmmmmmm.” John latched onto Sherlock through the trousers he was still wearing.

“Want you to fuck me,” John sucked on his lover’s tongue as he palmed his merino-covered cock. “First…the other…”

“Yes, oh, god yes,” Sherlock agreed hoarsely. He drew back and rolled to his side. John reached back and retrieved the lube from where he’d left it on the nightstand. He smiled as he dropped it between them.

With one more lingering kiss Sherlock flipped John onto his belly. John quickly shifted up onto hands and knees, arse in the air.

Sherlock was still beside him, eyes dark, lips parted. “John…are you sure…?”

“Sherlock,” John said sharply. “Now!”

Sherlock jumped, clambering on to his knees and moving back to kneel directly behind John. He smoothed his hands up and down the length of John’s back, his breath teasing over the exposed flesh of John’s cleft as he bent closer.

John shivered. He spread his legs a little in invitation, parting his cheeks a bit. “Please.”

Sherlock ducked and grasped one firm globe in each hand, pushing them apart to expose the tight pucker of John’s hole.

“Oh, god,” John moaned.

Sherlock leaned forward and licked a hot stripe up and over it, from bottom to top of the exposed cleft. John shook, arms weakening. “Holy f-fuck.”

Without further ado, Sherlock buried his face in John’s arse, licking and sucking at the tight, sensitive flesh. John rapidly became non-verbal, head dropping between his arms as Sherlock laved him. John felt the tip of Sherlock’s tongue probing him, darting in and out of the tight ring of muscle, making him wet, gently opening him. The loud grunt of shock and unbridled pleasure surprised them both. John’s head snapped up at the sound he’d just made; Sherlock retreated briefly.

John calling his name was the closest noise to a scream John had ever made. He could hear his lover’s self-satisfied chuckling as the hot mouth returned to his quivering body. Sherlock continued to suckle, lick and delve. John was wholly undone. Sherlock’s hands moved from his bottom to slide up and over his sides and around to his chest.

“ _Jesusfuckohgodpleasemore!_ ” Sherlock’s fingers closed over John’s sensitive nipples and began to tweak as his tongue continued the delicious torture below.

John writhed, rearing into the glorious sensation of Sherlock’s mouth, head thrown back.

Finally, he could take no more. “Love, please. Need you to fuck me!”

Sherlock immediately returned his hands to John’s arse, sliding two fingers into the damp, somewhat slackened passage. He scissored and stretched for a few minutes before adding a third finger. John rolled his hips into the pressure, grinding his arse down to fuck himself on the offered fingers.

“Now, oh, god, now, please!”

John could hear the sound of a zip and nearly melted with relief. There was the soft squelch of lube being dispensed and then…

“Unnnngghhhh…” John groaned as the head of Sherlock’s cock breached his sensitized anus. He pushed back into his lover’s gentle forward motion, helping to close the distance and bury the throbbing prick inside him.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate—they were both too close for slow and gentle. He assumed a punishing rhythm, his hips and lower belly slapping against John’s backside as he grunted his approval. He tugged back hard on John’s hips; firmly enough, John knew, that there would be bruises the following day.

“Sher—lock...”

“Mine. Just mine,” Sherlock growled, pounding into John’s body.

“Just—for—you. Al—ways.” John agreed, moaning as Sherlock grazed over his prostate again. He slid his hand down and began to tug on his own leaking cock. “Coming—oh, love!”

Sherlock sped up, thrusting hard as John’s body tightened with approaching orgasm. John began to quake as he came all over his own belly and the bed beneath him.

Sherlock groaned as he followed suit, burying and spending himself deep inside John.

John could no longer hang on. His knees slid out from under him and he collapsed onto the bed, Sherlock sprawling on top of him. John hummed at the lovely warmth of Sherlock’s naked chest against his back, his cheek against John’s shoulder.

“That was…” John mumbled into the pillow.

“Yes.”

“Today was…”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“Hmmm.”

“If I have to go away again?”

“Won’t hide your passport. Promise.”

“If I have to go away again, we’ll take the train.”

Sherlock slid his hands under John’s chest and tightened his arms around him. “More room in train lavatories.”

“Is there? Well, I guess we’ll find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, before anyone comments: I know that *technically* they didn't join the mile-high club. But it RHYMED!!! So sue me. And sorry this is soooo long. These things just run away with me. Lena: I hope jealous Sherlock was okay. Possessive John will be making an appearance, too. The other thing *ahem* will be arriving in an upcoming chapter. Christmas is coming early ;)


	9. We could be heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock solve a case, observe Remembrance Sunday and try to figure out what makes a hero.

John sipped his coffee, still too sleepy for conversation as he stared out the train window.

Sherlock sat tucked up against his side, bright-eyed and engrossed in something on his phone. John hated him just a little bit for his effortless energy at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

John had drifted to sleep the night before spooned up against Sherlock’s back following a delightfully unhurried shag (there had been several in the few case-free days since their return from Geneva). He had not been aware of Sherlock getting up. He hadn’t been aware of anything at all until he’d felt the bedclothes torn away, exposing his naked body to the flat’s November chill. He’d yelped in protest, only to be informed it was the only way to wake him efficiently.

And so he was up. On a train. At five a.m. For a case. In Chislehurst.

He was decidedly unenthusiastic about the whole thing.

“A Detective Inspector Hopkins will be meeting us there. Haven’t heard of him, but Lestrade insists he is reliable,” Sherlock said, putting the phone back in his pocket and re-crossing his legs. “We’ll see.”

John grunted in lieu of a verbal response, thinking it had been terribly cruel to wake Greg for that.

“He was up,” Sherlock said quickly. “Texting from his car—terribly irresponsible for a police officer. Obviously on his way back to his own flat from Molly’s for a change of clothes.”

John sighed; he was too weary to be annoyed at his thoughts being deduced or to be pleased for Greg and Molly. It was just too early. He clutched both hands around the paper cup. The coffee was weak, but it was hot and better than nothing. He felt Sherlock staring at him so he met the assessing gaze.

John waited for a withering comment, but none came. Sherlock merely cocked his head to the side before lifting his arm to wrap it around John’s shoulders. John leaned into the embrace gratefully, resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock dropped his cheek against the top of John’s head.

They passed the remainder of the trip in silence.

Less than two hours later, they were back on the train headed home. This time, though, John was alert and itching to discuss their brief sojourn to the suburbs. But Sherlock had spent very little time at the crime scene and he’d taken to glowering since they left Abbey Grange.

“Pretty straightforward, then?” John began.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hopkins seems a decent chap. Easy to work with.”

Sherlock turned to stare out the window.

“Chislehurst is nice.” John watched the landscape pass by. “I suppose that was worth the early morning.”

This finally drew a ragged snort from the detective. “Worth…? John, you astonish me. This was an egregious waste of my valuable time! An interrupted housebreaking? Honestly, even Lestrade could have managed it without me. A 3 at best.”

“It was my time, too, thanks very much. And be nice about Greg. He wouldn’t have called you for this.”

“My point,” Sherlock snapped.

“Mrs. Patel seemed very sweet though,” John remarked, undaunted by his partner’s foul temper as he considered the unfortunate widow—a 25-year-old former Miss India. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously and John held up his hands. “I thought she was nice, that’s all. It’s a shame she was married to such an abusive bastard.”

“She picked him.”

“Sometimes people get it wrong. She might not have known about the drinking.”

Sherlock sighed heavily.

“I know _you_ would have known, but mere mortals might not necessarily see the signs, especially if they’ve never known an alcoholic or if the addict is very good at hiding it.” Sherlock stiffened and John almost bit his tongue. “I was…I meant…before. With Harry, in the early days.”

Sherlock nodded, studying his hands for a moment. “I promised you.”

“I know,” John leaned forward and covered the hands with his own. “And I know you meant it. But no matter what, we’re in this together. Eyes wide open.”

Sherlock nodded again, considering this as he returned his attention to the window. “She hadn’t known him long at all before the wedding.”

“Like I said before, love makes people do funny things,” John said. “And he must have seemed like a good catch: handsome dot-com billionaire; well-known philanthropist. Though obviously the billionaire part is what made him a target. Poor Mrs. Patel must have been terrified finding that lot in her house in the middle of the night.”

Sherlock stiffened. “Say that again.”

John’s brow crinkled. “Say what again? She must have been terrified?”

“No, no. Before that.”

John mentally backtracked. “Billionaire…target?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up as he leaned across and kissed John soundly before fishing for his phone.

“Was I conducting light just then?”

“You were.”

“Are you planning to share?”

“Mhmmm.” Sherlock stood, ducking briefly to see where they were. “Grove Park next. Come on, John. Keep up.” He made to stride down the aisle, texting furiously as he did.

“Oi, where are you going?” John jumped up and darted after him.

“Back. We’re going back.”

“Why?”

Sherlock turned with a smile. “Something is not as it seems.”

____________________________

After a great deal of snooping (with grudging permission) through encrypted security systems, scouring of rooms that had nothing to do with the crime scene and tormenting of the forensics team, Sherlock and John had returned home. Sherlock had been tight-lipped, however.

John was still waiting for an explanation that afternoon when he received an unusual call on his mobile. It was wholly unexpected and incredibly flattering.

“Sherlock?” he called as he made his way down from their bedroom. “You’ll never guess. Well, maybe you will—oh.” John stopped mid-stride, taking in the 20-something-year-old young man sitting on their sofa.

Sherlock stood barefoot in the centre of the sitting room, dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, arms folded with one finger over his lips, staring at their visitor.

“Who is—” John started then turned to the stranger and extended his hand. “Sorry. John Watson. And you are?” The young man took it, looking back with some concern at the sombre detective hovering nearby.

“This is Mr. Barun Gavde,” Sherlock said. “He is Mrs. Patel’s childhood sweetheart and current co-conspirator.”

“What?” John’s head snapped back to Sherlock. “Co-conspirator?”

“Now wait just a minute,” the young man started, standing.

Sherlock glared at him. “Sit.”

Barun Gavde reluctantly lowered himself to their sofa. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but Dee—Mrs. Patel was a client. The wife of a client. That’s all.”

“Client?” John was puzzled.

“Mr. Gavde is an electronic engineer and co-owner of Citadel Systems. They have made quite an impressive foray into the private security market: politicians, celebrities, footballers, that sort of thing. Citadel designed the security for Abbey Grange.”

John glanced back at the young man, now looking very anxious indeed. “Would you like a cuppa, Mr. Gavde?” he offered.

“Barun, please.” The young man’s smile was shaky. “Tea would be brilliant.”

“What? Tea? Now?” Sherlock frowned. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes,” John replied over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen.

Sherlock followed him. “We are in the middle of a case, John.”

“He’s upset, Sherlock,” John whispered, switching the kettle on.

“We don’t have time for this,” Sherlock hissed.

“You gave Moriarty tea. And in Mrs. Hudson’s second-best china, no less,” John replied calmly, setting out the very same cups as he waited for the kettle. “Get the milk.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but snapped it shut again and stomped to the refrigerator. He set the bottle down in front of the tray John was laying. Sherlock’s fingers drummed against the counter as they waited for the water to boil.

John filled the teapot and picked up the tray. He smiled at Sherlock. “Off you go, then.”

They returned to the sitting room to find Barun curled into the corner of their sofa.

“So,” Sherlock began. “You have known Deepa Patel since you were children. You lived near each other, were perhaps even neighbours, growing up in Nagpur.”

“How…?”

John smiled to himself as he poured the tea. He handed a cup to Barun, who still looked startled.

“The wine. It’s an experimental product being tested for the possibility of mass production, made from Thulli, the small-sized Nagpur orange. Patel drank only spirits, as evidenced by his liquor cabinet. Could have been that Mrs. Patel bought it, however it became evident during my brief conversation with her that she rarely drinks and would be very unlikely to purchase alcohol herself. An attitude undoubtedly brought on by her husband’s violence while intoxicated.” Sherlock paused. “Still, the wine would only be of interest to someone familiar with the region or the orange industry, say, such as Mrs. Patel’s father or…your mother? The area of Nagpur in which you and Mrs. Patel grew up was home to many NOGA employees—could have been your father, but given your right hand, I’m guessing mother.”

Barun looked down at his hand, clearly confused.

“Woman’s ring on your pinkie, clearly deeply sentimental—very closely tied to your memories of the woman who wore it. It is a long-service token. From NOGA. Your mother’s.” Sherlock paused and paced in John’s direction. “You brought the wine for Deepa Patel as a gift because you wanted her to remember her past in Nagpur and the person with whom she shared it.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John as he handed him his cup. “You disposed of the second wine glass, of course, but you forgot about the very subtle ring on the table by the settee. Dust is eloquent.”

 _Show-off_ , John mouthed. Sherlock smirked at him.

“Shit.”

“Oh, no one else noticed,” Sherlock assured Barun calmly. He perched on the edge of his desk, crossed his ankles and stared at the man, taking a sip of tea. “Tell me. And don’t be dull.”

Barun sighed, slumping a little. “I hadn’t seen Deepa since we were fifteen. My family moved; we lost touch, but I never stopped loving her. I kept track of her accomplishments, even emailed her once or twice, but we simply didn’t reconnect. I won a scholarship to study at MIT in America. She was acting, modelling and then travelling with the pageant thing. I thought it was hopeless.” He took a long sip from the tea John had provided. “I decided to stop torturing myself. I stopped looking for her name in the magazines, stopped asking my parents for news. Just stopped. I had no idea she’d married Patel. I was gobsmacked when I walked into Abbey Grange for the first consultation and saw her there. I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest.”

Sherlock winced at the melodramatic statement. “And so having been reunited with the woman you loved, you began to pursue her.”

“I know it was wrong, but I could see she was miserable,” Barun sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. “The first time I saw her with bruises, I…I went mad. I begged her to come away with me. She was so frightened of him, of his connections. Deepa believed they would kill us both. She made me promise to do nothing, to walk away.”

“You didn’t though, did you?” John said.

Barun shook his head. “I texted her from outside the house that night. I begged her to leave everything and come with me.”

“She went down to the library and turned off the perimeter alarm to let you in,” Sherlock filled in. “You begged her to leave; she refused. Told you she couldn’t risk seeing you again. She opened the wine—it was intended as a farewell. But Patel found you together.”

“A few minutes later he burst into the room screaming that he’d known she was cheating. That he’d been watching because he knew she was a…whore,” Barun choked on the word. “He’d come home late and Deepa thought he’d passed out in his own bedroom. It’s what he usually did. But instead he’d been sitting in…”

“The panic room. Yes, I know,” Sherlock interrupted. “The room had been tidied, but it was clear someone other than the security guard had been in there. The camera footage files and system logs have been tampered with, of course.” He looked meaningfully at Barun. “But I’m certain Mr. Patel was in the system looking for something when the live feed from the library caught his attention—when his wife appeared. That camera had been zoomed in.”

“Shit,” Barun hissed.

“Yes, you missed it,” Sherlock confirmed.

John knew Sherlock’s exposition was for his benefit. “You’re sure it was Mr. Patel,” he said. It really wasn’t a question.

“The chair had been adjusted. Whoever was using it intended to be there for more than a few minutes. The guard employed by the Patel family—who was out patrolling the grounds at that time, as per Citadel’s specifications, which Mr. Gavde knew, of course—is nearly 200 centimetres tall. The chair had been lowered to accommodate someone much shorter. Mr. Patel was not quite 170 centimetres.” Sherlock paused. “The patrol takes approximately 69 minutes.”

The young man looked defeated, nodding. “I timed my arrival, when I knew the guard would be at the furthest point of his patrol away from the house and we would have about 35 minutes to get out. Deepa didn’t know her husband had been watching the footage from the house, checking up on her for weeks—I checked the logs when I…anyway, she had no idea he might have been in there last night.”

“Are you sure?”

Barun glared at Sherlock. “What are you suggesting?”

“Her husband is very wealthy. She does stand to inherit a great deal. Inciting her husband’s rage with you there to kill him in self-defence. It’s very convenient.”

“I didn’t kill him!” Barun stood, looking horrified. “It was an accident! You have to believe me!” The young man looked to John for support. “And Deepa gets nothing. Nothing! The bastard had his will written before the wedding, along with the pre-nuptial agreement. Deepa would have inherited or been entitled to a divorce settlement only if she’d given him children.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a long look. John’s gut told him to believe the young man; he’d already been predisposed to like Mrs. Patel, and he was almost certain Sherlock would have checked about the inheritance—obviously he was trying to find out what Barun knew. John nodded and Sherlock returned it.

“How did he die?” the detective asked Barun coolly.

“He rushed at Deepa. The punch caught her before I could get between them. She was down on the floor, a little dazed. The next thing I knew, he had that stupid antique mace in his hand and he came at me. He took several swings at me and backed me toward the green chair. That’s when Deepa threw the vase at him. It slowed him down, but not enough. I caught his wrist and tried to get the bloody thing away from him. He caught his foot on the chair leg and lost his footing. He fell right beside me; went completely still. I could see…the weight of the mace in his hand had…it had landed right on his temple.”

“Yes. Scuff mark on the chair leg matches the one on his shoe. No, they didn’t notice that either,” Sherlock continued. “So you removed the wine glass, wiped the handle of the mace clean, concocted the story about the intruders and used your expertise to rearrange the security system.”

“How did you know?”

“Several things. There was no reason for the intruders to strike Mrs. Patel, as she claimed—obviously to account for her fresh bruises. No, such an action would not have silenced her, but more likely caused her to cry out,” Sherlock was clearly getting warmed up. “A group of three armed men easily could have subdued one short, out-of-shape billionaire—even one as ‘reckless and violent’ as Mr. Patel, according to his wife. Why kill him? And why not simply shoot him? The thieves broke into a house with the extremely well-known, wealthy owners at home, yet displayed no interest in exploiting their advantage: neither of the Patels was held for ransom and Mr. Patel’s personal safe was untouched—yes, I found it, though I have not yet informed the police about it. If the intruders’ object simply was to lift a few moderately valuable items from the premises, why risk discovery by breaking in when the family was about? Amateur thieves, then.”

Sherlock spun dramatically, his robe billowing in his wake. John had to admit he really did love that.

“But where would amateur thieves gain the wherewithal to outsmart Mr. Gavde’s sophisticated technology? Mrs. Patel stated that the alarm was tripped but went off very quickly, the assumption being that the intruders must have been able to decrypt the false alarm code.”

“No?” John couldn’t help blurting out.

“No,” Sherlock replied emphatically. “The alarm was tripped and the false alarm code was entered, but only after Mr. Gavde had deleted the relevant camera footage and system logs, altered the system time stamps and prepared for his departure.” John nodded; Sherlock continued. “The system was reconfigured from the central control panel in the panic room. Only three people at Citadel have the ability to do so. Only one of them grew up with Mrs. Patel and has a vested interest in her future and is close enough in height to Mr. Patel so as not to have noticed the lowered chair.”

“What about the guard?” John asked, looking between the two men. “Wouldn’t he have heard the alarm, if it went off?”

“The guard did hear the alarm, and he saw the false alarm code on his remote monitor; he stated he assumed it was Mr. Patel coming home drunk. A frequent occurrence, as we know. The guard didn’t call it in, but did begin making his way back to the house as per his instructions. As you had to have known he would.” Sherlock addressed this to Barun. “You’d given yourself a 20 minute loop on the cameras and had Mrs. Patel gather a selection of items for the ‘thieves’ to have taken. You made your exit on the far side of the property. I assume, then, that the missing items can be found at the bottom of the lake?”

Barun nodded, looking slightly dazed. “But the programming—it had to have fooled the police techs.”

“It might have,” Sherlock conceded. “But then they weren’t looking very closely. The police have been provided with a reasonable explanation of events. You do know that there have been three similar break-ins in the area? Of course you do. Unfortunately for you, the thieves responsible for those jobs were arrested in Cornwall yesterday. Still, there has been enough press coverage that the police are treating this as a copycat.”

“I have a question,” John interjected. “Why not simply call the police and claim self-defence—show them the footage of Patel attacking his wife and you. Wouldn’t that have been much simpler?”

“You don’t know these people,” Barun started coldly. “They would have killed us both. They might yet.”

“What people?”

“If I say gangster, what does that bring to mind?” Barun asked.

John shrugged. “A Guy Ritchie film?”

“I wish they were that funny. I don’t know what all Raj Patel had his hands in. The more I saw while we were designing his system, the less I wanted to know. But I can tell you that he was a dangerous man with dangerous friends.”

“You think they would take revenge for his death, even if it were an accident.”

“I do. So does Deepa. You have to believe me: if they suspected for a moment that she had something to do with his death, they would have her killed.”

“I see,” Sherlock replied.

Barun took a deep breath. “So what do we do now?”

“Patel’s death was an accident. I could make a statement to that effect.”

“Please, Mr. Holmes, I’m begging you—forget we’ve had this conversation and let the police continue with their reasonable explanation. Please.”

“It’s unlikely there would be a trial,” Sherlock continued. “Though you might be in some difficulty for perverting the course of justice.”

Barun dropped his head into his hands.

Sherlock paced to the window. “Or…”

“Yes?” Barun looked up. “Or?”

Sherlock suddenly looked intrigued. “I could forget to disclose what I have deduced. Though you understand we’d _both_ face charges if it were discovered.” John rolled his eyes at that. The man didn’t have to sound so gleeful at the possibility.

“If _you_ hadn’t been at the crime scene, it’s unlikely anyone else would have figured any of this out. And I’d risk anything, even a prison sentence, if it means there’s a chance I can keep Deepa safe,” Barun insisted.

Sherlock was painfully silent. John couldn’t help stealing a look at him, but the man’s expression was shuttered. He turned to face the window, his back to Barun and John.

“I will keep your secret,” Sherlock said finally. “Unless the police appear to be close to arresting an innocent party.”

Barun jumped to his feet. “Do you mean that? I…”

“On one condition,” Sherlock interrupted. “You and Mrs. Patel will be responsible for maintaining your own cover.”

“Meaning?”

“You two will need to stay away from one another. For at least 12 months.”

Barun sat again, looking a bit bleak. “Right.”

“Any relationship between you now would be suspicious, even to the police.”

Barun was silent, clearly weighing the risks. Finally he nodded. “We’ll be fine. Deepa wants to go home to India anyway.”

“And John is quite right: It would have been sensible to keep a copy of the security camera footage from the library, to have irrefutable evidence of your innocence.”

“I didn’t think—I was starting to panic by that point,” Barun muttered. “It would take some work, but I could probably recover it from our main server at the office.”

“It might be wise,” Sherlock reiterated. “Just in case.”

“I understand,” Barun said. “This is—it’s the best way.”

Sherlock looked resigned. “If it’s what you want, I will abide by your decision.”

Barun stood and extended his hand to Sherlock. “I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”

John smiled. Sherlock absolutely hated this part.

The detective looked uncomfortable, but took the young man’s hand. “Yes. Fine. We’re finished now.”

Sherlock spun and strode to snatch his violin from his chair. John shook his head.

“Don’t mind him,” he said to the younger man as he walked with him to the door. “He doesn’t do well with gratitude.”

“He’s...fascinating.”

John nodded as they both watched the man in question tuning the instrument. “He is, yeah.” He shook the hand Barun offered. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. Thank you both, so much.”

_______________________

An hour later, Sherlock was completing the last bars of a violin piece while John finished preparing their supper. Sherlock drew out the final notes before laying the bow down to pack the instrument away.

“That was lovely.”

“Tchaikovsky seemed appropriate.”

“How so?”

“Romeo and Juliet.”

“Oh, right.” John set two plates on the table and sat down. “You wanted to help them. Barun and Deepa.”

“What on earth gave you that idea?” Sherlock strode to his chair and flopped into it, bending to sniff the food in front of him. “Was Thai Palace not open?”

John made a face. “Tired of take-away. Besides, you’re always so appreciative when I cook.” He leaned in and stole a kiss; Sherlock tried very hard not to look pleased. John tucked in to his meal, returning to their previous topic. “You didn’t have to call Barun here. You could have turned them both in to Hopkins and been done. I think you enjoyed being their Friar Laurence.”

“A poor analogy, John. The friar’s scheme was an abject failure, if you will recall.”

“So you do remember some Shakespeare.”

“As little as possible. Experts can be consulted as necessary,” Sherlock said. “And our criminal justice system is overburdened as it is. No sense cluttering it up with something like this.”

John’s look was just a little teasing. “You felt sorry for them.”

“Have you ever known me to express anything even remotely like pity or empathy? For anyone?”

“Just admit it.”

“No.” Sherlock stared at the sausage and mash in front of him. “I’m not hungry. And I don’t like peas.”

“You ate them two weeks ago. I swear you do this to wind me up.” John gestured toward Sherlock’s plate with his own fork. “Just eat.” He cut a bit of his own sausage and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “You don’t think it’s curious that out of all of the things you could do with that amazing brain of yours you chose to be a detective.”

“Oh, that had to have been Mycroft,” Sherlock whinged. “Did he tell you about the pirate thing as well? How precious.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“We’ve been over this: I like puzzles; crime provides the best ones.”

“Crime requires you to work with people, to deal with the very human feelings that motivate them to do what they do.”

“But I don’t care. I’ve never cared.”

“You may not be terribly good at it, but you do.”

“No.”

“You can’t deny the work you do helps people, Sherlock. You protect society in one way or another, whether you like it or not.”

“This conversation is pointless, John. I am not noble.”

“Henry Knight might disagree. He thinks you’re a nutter, but he was one of the most vocal supporters of the ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ movement.” John pointed out. “So maybe your approach to right and wrong is a litle, shall we say, _unorthodox._ Still, you saved my life. And Greg and Mrs. H.”

“Yes, and then I lied to you, made you watch me commit suicide and deserted you for three years. Not good.”

“S’okay. Knocking you unconscious made me feel a little bit better about that.” John smiled to himself as he took another bite.

“Wipe that grin off your face, Dr. Watson.”

“Nope.”

“You know I’ll continue to disappoint you.”

“Every person on earth disappoints someone, somewhere along the way,” John shrugged, loading his fork. “I’ll disappoint you sometime. Just wait.”

There was a pause as Sherlock reluctantly took a bite of potato and swallowed. He flicked his eyes to John before replying very softly, “No, I don’t think you will.”

John set his knife down to give Sherlock’s hand a quick squeeze. “If not, it’ll be more by good luck than good management, I think.”

“Why do you love me, John?”

John carefully swallowed the sausage in his mouth. “Because you’re you. You know I think you’re bloody amazing.” He took a bite of peas and chewed for a moment. “Why do you love me?”

“I—why would you ask me that?” Sherlock replied irritably.

“You asked me first,” John reminded him gently.

Sherlock dragged the tines of his fork through the gravy on his plate. Slowly. Finally he said, “Because I have never known anyone like you.” He inclined his head. “The noise in my head makes more sense when I’m with you.”

“That’s good luck, then, isn’t it?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled up at this. He nodded and returned to contemplating his meal. “I’ve had an enquiry on the website. Possible case in Scotland. We’d probably be away the rest of the week.”

“That sounds nice. I’ll ring the hospital and let them know. Though we’d need to be back by Saturday night.”

“Why?”

“I meant to say earlier, before the thing,” John continued. “This Sunday is special.”

“Is it?” Sherlock forked a bite of sausage into his mouth, looking puzzled.

“Sunday, Sherlock. Second in November, nearest to the 11th.”

Sherlock shook his head, his mouth full.

“Oh, god, please tell me you haven’t deleted World War I.”

The brow under the curly fringe furrowed. “World War I? Ohhhhhh. Remembrance Sunday. What of it? You go to the Cenotaph every year. Why is this year special?”

“I thought you might want to come with me,” John hedged.

“You didn’t answer my question. And I thought we had discussed this.”

“We did discuss it, and I understand your objection to this sort of ceremony as a general rule, but this year will be different.”

“Because…?”

“Because I will be part of it.”

“What have they asked you to do?”

“They are commemorating the RAMC this year and they’ve asked me to read something.”

“Not that I am questioning their wisdom in selecting you—I would hardly quarrel with their choice—but given the number of possible candidates, I must ask: Why you?”

“Yes, well, combination of factors, really,” John admitted. “They polled the corps for nominations, and my name did come up as one of several possibilities. Apparently some of them are fans of my blog. Anyway, a choice was made, but when the list was sent on for approval your brother’s friend, Harry—at the palace—made a phone call.”

“Ah, yes. You were a favourite of hers.”

“Apparently.”

Sherlock frowned; John wasn’t sure whether it was displeasure at having to share him, however briefly, with a large crowd of strangers or simply annoyance at the prospect of having to attend such an emotionally wrought event.

“What do they want you to read?”

“In Flanders Fields.”

Sherlock stared at John blankly, forking more potato into his mouth.

“The famous poem. Talks about poppies…”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m sure it’s locked away somewhere, but it doesn’t immediately come to mind. Why that, in particular?”

“Well, it was written by a Canadian soldier after the second battle at Ypres—”

“Canadian,” Sherlock sneered.

“Who also happened to be a physician.”

“Oh.” The room was silent for a moment. “That’s logical, I suppose.”

“I’m delighted it meets with your approval,” John said evenly. “And what in the world is wrong with Canadians now? Wait. Let me guess: they’re too nice and it’s very suspicious?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Have you ever met anyone from Canada?” John asked. Sherlock started to speak and John pointed at him. “And, no, the murderer using their governor general’s identity doesn’t count.”

Sherlock straightened his spine and fixed his features into haughty disdain as he toyed with the food on his plate.

John was still grinning as he poked at the pile of peas still untouched in front of Sherlock. “Finish those or no custard tart.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened. “We have custard tarts?”

“Mrs. H made them for you yesterday. Had her hide them downstairs so we could have them tonight.”

Sherlock sighed as he stared at the remains of his supper.

But he did finish his peas.

_______________

John stood at the mantle and critiqued his appearance in the mirror. He straightened his tie and adjusted the beret. He felt the edge of his decorations and honours—all present and lined up perfectly. He was as ready as he would be.

He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. John turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Moments later, Mrs. Hudson appeared.

“Oh, you look ever so handsome,” she cried. “We’re so very proud of you, aren’t we Sherlock?”

John turned to where his fiancé had slipped quietly into the room through the kitchen. He was dressed in his steel grey suit, which much to John’s surprise (never having had an interest in men’s fashions before, outside of his own) he had discovered was his favourite. The man’s inky curls were still damp from the shower.

The two men regarded each other silently, John found he was standing a little straighter, his chest out, as Sherlock’s gaze lingered over his dark suit and crisp white shirt. As their eyes met again, John sucked in a sharp breath—the expression on Sherlock’s face was a strange combination of pleasure, pride and hunger. John could not remember ever feeling so attractive. Or so admired.

“The cab should be here, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said smoothly, his eyes never leaving John. “Would you mind going to meet it? You can tell him we’ll be along shortly.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson sounded very amused. She hesitated in the doorway. “Now don’t you muss him up or make him late, Sherlock Holmes.” Neither man looked away as she disappeared down the stairs.

Sherlock studied the insignia and decorations on John’s chest. “You didn’t tell me.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Tell you what?”

“This.” Sherlock dragged a finger over the silver cross hanging from the white ribbon with red and dark blue stripes.

“That?” John looked down at the medal briefly before meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “You know, I’m so used to you I think I just assumed you knew.”

“You didn’t just get shot.” It was a statement, a question and just a little bit of an accusation.

“Well, no, actually,” John admitted. “I was on my way back from leave; we were ambushed. I went back for someone under heavy fire. I couldn’t move him without killing him, so I worked on him where he was. Managed to get myself shot in the end, but I kept him alive until they could pull us out.”

“Did he survive?”

John nodded. “He lost his leg, but he can still walk. No permanent spinal cord injury.”

Sherlock nodded. He looked John over carefully and ran a hand down the front of the jacket.

“We should go,” John prompted.

Sherlock met his eyes and nodded again. He turned and offered John his hand; John took it with pleasure.

Some time later, following a particularly tedious cab ride and some confusion about where exactly he was meant to be, John found himself standing in line with the dignitaries and other speakers, to one side of the chaplain. As the service began, he felt his nerves jangling.

Going to war was one thing; public speaking was something else altogether.

He tried to focus on the words. He mumbled his way through the hymns. He scanned over the crowd gathered near the cenotaph, feeling a burden of responsibility for the RAMC, his mates, the soldiers they’d treated and those who’d never made it back. He looked out at the veterans, soldiers and their families and friends and fidgeted the paper in his hands.

 _No cock ups, Watson_. The day was far too important for that.

John couldn’t help but think about the corporal he’d saved on the day he’d been shot. It could have been so very different for both of them, yet here he was. And he knew Davey was at a Remembrance Sunday service in Cardiff with his wife and kids.

He thought about his own family in attendance. He knew Harry was somewhere in the crowd. And Mrs. Hudson, of course. And Sherlock. His fiancé—the man he loved beyond reason and was going to spend the rest of his life with because he was fortunate enough to have come home.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he heard the beginning of the introduction about the RAMC. They called his name and he marched to the dais. He set the paper down and his fingers tightened around the sides of the podium. He looked out over the crowd, wishing he knew where Sherlock was.

John licked his lips and began to read.

> _In Flanders fields the poppies blow_  
>  Between the crosses, row on row,  
>  That mark our place; and in the sky  
>  The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
>  Scarce heard amid the guns below.
> 
> _We are the Dead. Short days ago_  
>  We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
>  Loved, and were loved, and now we lie  
>  In Flanders fields.
> 
> _Take up our quarrel with the foe:_  
>  To you from failing hands we throw  
>  The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
>  If ye break faith with us who die  
>  We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
>  In Flanders fields.

There was a profound silence as he finished and walked back to his spot, though he could just make out the muffled sound of restrained tears. He allowed his head to drop for a moment before the presentation of the wreaths began.

The rest of the ceremony seemed to pass quickly. As the formalities came to a close and the crowd began to disperse, John stood his ground. He knew it would be easier for everyone to find him than vice versa.

“Johnny!”

John smiled as he spied his sister. She reached for him as she got close, taking John by surprise with a hug. She hadn’t hugged him in years. “That was very well done,” she said briefly.

“Thanks. I was worried about stumbling over the words.”

“It was perfect. Very moving.” John noticed with some surprise that she had been crying. Not that he doubted her regard for him. Not really. They’d never been close, but they were still family in the end. And somehow the idea of his sister weeping on his account gave him pause. He’d never seen her cry over him. Not even at Selly Oak.

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft’s smooth, cultured voice came from behind him, interrupting his reverie. John turned to greet the man.

“Mycroft,” he replied, extending his hand. The taller man shook it. “I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“Not at all. I am here every year, although I usually observe from…” he glanced around at the nearby buildings. “A location nearby.”

John leaned in with just a bit of cheek and dropped his voice. “I’d have thought perhaps our—what was it you called it? Oh, yes. Stupidity. I’d have thought that might offend.”

“Yes, well, I may have misspoken,” Mycroft cleared his throat, managing to look somewhat chagrined.

John chuckled. He just couldn’t resist taking the piss out of Mycroft Holmes. “Well, I suppose I can let that go. After all, we’re nearly family.” The taller man relaxed ever so slightly. “Did Sherlock tell you about this?”

Mycroft raised a sardonic brow.

“No, of course he wouldn’t. Does he know you’re here?”

“I would imagine,” Mycroft sighed.

“Johnny?”

“Sorry, sorry.” John grimaced at his lapse and stepped back, inviting his sister closer. “Mycroft, I don’t think you’ve met my sister, Harry Watson.”

Harry stepped forward. “Ah, yes, the elder brother. Pleasure to meet you.”

Mycroft took Harry’s hand and bowed over it in an entirely anachronistic, if perfectly Mycroftian, gesture. “Ms. Watson. “

“John!”

He turned again at the sound of his name and his lover’s voice. Sherlock was breaking his way through the milling crowd with Mrs. Hudson clutched safely to his side. They were travelling a bit more slowly than Sherlock’s usual long-legged pace, in deference to Mrs. H’s hip.

“John, dear, you did a lovely job,” Mrs. Hudson said, patting his arm affectionately.

John smiled at her, then glanced up expectantly at Sherlock—the opinion that mattered most. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on him, but revealed nothing. John was about to ask when another familiar voice intruded.

“Oi, John!”

They all turned to see Lestrade approaching. He had an arm slung about the shoulders of a boy about ten years old, who looked so much like him it wasn’t difficult to guess who he was. At Lestrade’s other side was Molly Hooper, her hand clasped tightly around that of the man beside her.

“’Lo everyone,” Greg greeted them.

“Greg,” John responded. “Good to see you. Uh, I think you know everyone except my sister, Harry. Harry, this is DI Lestrade.”

“Harry? Greg. Nice to meet you.”

“Greg,” Harry acknowledged with a broad smile.

“And this is Molly Hooper,” John continued.

Harry’s face lit up, reaching for Molly’s hand. “Oh, I’m so glad we’ve met. John’s told me so much about you; about what you did.”

John froze, stunned. Sherlock, too, was looking at John’s sister with disbelief.

“What I did?” Molly looked a bit perplexed.

“For Sherlock,” Harry prompted. “When he needed to be dead.”

“Oh, that. It was nothing, really. Some blood, some paperwork…I just—I did what I could,” Molly said shyly, her cheeks pink.

“I think you are being too modest. From what John has said, you took some tremendous risks. I think you are incredibly brave and an excellent friend,” Harry said firmly. “None of it should have been necessary, of course,” she continued, with a pointed look at her future brother-in-law. “But I know your actions helped protect my brother, among others. We all owe you a great deal.”

“Thank you,” Molly said softly. “I—thank you.”

Greg leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on her temple. He was not able to linger, however.

“Dad!”

Greg glanced down, a little embarrassed. “Sorry, mate. Everyone, this is my son, Alex.”

“Hello, Alex,” John said amiably.

The boy smiled up at him. “’Lo. So why aren’t you in a uniform?”

“Good question,” John replied. “I was not a commissioned officer—major or above—so technically I’m not entitled to wear my uniform now I’m pensioned.”

The boy’s mouth formed an “O” and he nodded, taking in the decorations on John’s chest.

“Alex and I come every year, in honour of his granddad,” Lestrade continued. “This year, though, he was particularly excited to meet my friend Dr. Watson. He’s doing a report at school, you see, on Afghanistan. He was hoping he might be able to ask you some questions about what it was like.”

John nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, of course. I’d be happy to help, Alex.”

“Really? Now?”

“NO!!”

Everyone stopped and turned to look at Sherlock, who was looking very frustrated indeed. John knew the man had never had much patience for social pleasantries, but this time he was more than bored.

“Sherlock,” John started.

Sherlock waved his hands in irritation. “I don’t mean ‘No, you may not help the child with his school project,’ I just mean ‘Not now.’”

“Why not?”

“We have an appointment.”

“We do? To do what? You haven’t mentioned it before.”

Sherlock blew air out in a great, exasperated gust, ignoring everyone’s amusement. “Well, I am now. We’re going.” He pushed between Molly and Mrs. Hudson and grasped John’s upper arm, dragging him away from their friends and out toward Bridge Street.

“Sherlock! Will you let me go! What the hell is the matter with you?” John struggled, looking back to where Mycroft appeared to be doing a great deal of talking. “What is Mycroft doing?”

“My brother’s presence has proven useful. He’s explaining that I’ve planned something very special for today, and they are not to be offended by my behaviour. As if that were even possible at this point,” Sherlock muttered the last. “I’m sure Mycroft will see Mrs. Hudson home. And we can make arrangements later for Lestrade’s offspring to visit you at 221B with his questions.”

John stopped short, nearly spinning Sherlock around as he did. “Something special?”

“Do you want me to tell you or would you rather see for yourself?”

John’s mouth turned up. “All right,” he said. “Lead on.”

They walked side by side toward Westminster Bridge and across. John’s curiosity was killing him, but he said nothing. Sherlock did not offer his hand or ask for John’s, but rather marched ahead with both gloved hands balled into fists. He looked jittery, John noted. He was nervous.

John thought it was adorable.

As they turned by County Hall, John became suspicious. As they neared the London Eye, he became confused.

“Wait,” he started, addressing the back of the detective who was by now a few steps ahead of him. “We’re going on the Eye? You hate this sort of thing.”

Sherlock hesitated. He took two steps back and grasped John by the wrist. “But this isn’t about me. You said you liked the view.” He tugged gently, propelling John forward.

When they arrived at the Eye, a man in a dark suit was waiting for them.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said to Sherlock, nodding deferentially. (Mycroft’s, John decided). The man led them past the line-up and to a side gate. They were ushered into a capsule and the door closed behind them.

John stopped and looked behind them when he realized no other passengers were being boarded.

“Sherlock, howmm…” John was cut off by the firm hands that grasped the lapels of his jacket and spun him around, and the warm mouth that swiftly and firmly captured his own.

John was off-balance, grasping at Sherlock to steady himself. He fisted one hand into the dark wool sleeve and allowed his body to sway into Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s tongue swept between his parted lips and tasted him. John teased at the welcome intrusion with his own tongue, slanting his mouth over Sherlock’s pliant lips to deepen contact.

Sherlock released his jacket and wrapped one arm around John’s waist. The other hand slipped up to cup the side of John’s face. Gentle fingers held him in place for Sherlock’s kiss, one thumb stroking against his cheek. John willingly ceded control; he wrapped both arms around the taller man and held on.

Long minutes later, when Sherlock finally released his mouth, John allowed himself to surface slowly. He licked his lips and let his eyes drift open to find Sherlock staring at him with trepidation.

“Well,” John began. “Much as I would like to forgo conversation and continue with what you were just doing, it seems as though you have something you need to say.”

Sherlock eased out of their embrace and walked to the glass. “As ever, my dear, you surprise me.”

“Ah, well, I know that look,” John said tolerantly. He moved to stand beside the taller man, taking one hand in his own. “So was this Mycroft’s payment for Geneva?”

Sherlock nodded. “Should have been more, but…well, short notice.”

“When did you plan this?”

“This morning.” Sherlock hesitated. “I knew, you see, about the war. About your injury. I believed I understood, but I’d missed something.”

“What’s that?” John prompted, wishing he could take away the tension he could feel radiating off of the body beside him.

“Given your predilection for danger, I had not given much thought to how you came by your injury. I could tell what the weapon was, and how far away you were from your attacker, but—” Sherlock stalled. “But you weren’t merely shot in the line of duty. You willingly risked your life to save someone else’s.”

John sighed. So that was it. “I was a soldier, love,” he replied. “We do what we have to.”

“But it was very reckless of you, John,” Sherlock insisted, his face very serious. “You might never have come back, or stopped in London, or met up with Stamford…”

“Or met you?” John felt a lump forming in his throat. He slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him close. He felt the lean body sagging against him.

Sherlock looked agitated. “I listened to you reading those words, ‘ _We are the Dead. Short days ago/We lived…_ ’.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t…breathe. I—I— felt…ill.” Sherlock turned and drew John closer, wrapping both arms around him. John tucked his head under Sherlock’s chin. “It felt—it was like saying goodbye to you all over again. Is this what it was like for you?”

John closed his eyes, thinking back to the first dark days after he thought he’d lost Sherlock. “Yes.”

“John, I—”

“Don’t,” John whispered. “It’s okay now. We’ve done this bit and made our peace with it.” John rubbed his back. “We’re the lucky ones. We both came home.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “You are a good man, John. You save people. You’ve saved me.”

John considered this, trying to work out where Sherlock was headed. “Lots of people put themselves in harm’s way for others: Greg, Molly…even your brother, in his own way.” He paused. “And you saved my life, too—you always skip over that.”

“A magic trick,” Sherlock said firmly. “I didn’t die, I cheated. And we both know you’d never have been in danger if not for me. I put all of you at risk, just by being in your lives.”

“None of us would have it any other way. You know that. Caring about people, letting them care about you, is a risk. But it’s just part of life. The good part; the best part.” John pulled back so their eyes met. “And nothing changes what you sacrificed. Three years, chasing down Moriarty’s web. I know you haven’t told me everything, but I know it still wears on you—the things you had to do, so far away from everyone and everything that matters to you.”

“Only the one thing that really matters,” Sherlock acknowledged. He dropped his lips to John’s brow and rested there a moment. He shifted then so they were side by side, keeping one arm firmly about John’s waist. They looked out over London together. Their city. Another battlefield.

“I’m not a good man,” Sherlock said suddenly. “But when you said I help people, that what I do protects them? I wanted to be.”

“Sherlock …”

“I like that you think I am. I want you to believe it of me; I think I’ve always wanted to deserve you believing it of me—to deserve all the things you did for me, said about me, when everyone thought I was a fraud.”

John felt the arm tighten around him. He turned just enough so he could look up at Sherlock. He raised a hand and pulled up the man’s coat collar before caressing the planes and angles of the face he knew so well.

“You and your cheekbones,” he chuckled softly. “One of a kind, you are.” He tugged on the turned-up collar and drew Sherlock down for a chaste kiss. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve my respect, Sherlock. You’ve always had it.”

Sherlock nodded, still looking a bit pensive. John leaned into his side; savouring just being with the man he loved on such a meaningful day. Sherlock gazed down toward Whitehall, where they could see the last of the crowds dispersing.

“You are a hero, John,” Sherlock said softly. “I said they don’t exist, but they do.”

“I know, love,” John replied, smiling up at his lover’s profile. “I never doubted it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) With apologies to ACD purists for flagrant abuse of canon. 2) John's comment to Mycroft refers to "the bravery of the soldier" "kindest word for stupidity" exchange. 3) I really struggled with this chapter so please forgive its imperfections and inaccuracies. *making big puppy eyes now* 4) Apologies to anyone still reading this who has been waiting. I promise there will be another chapter up shortly (just need to finish the smut).


	10. In the still of the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether it had been in deference to John’s occasional nightmares (far rarer these days) or due to a grudging acceptance of his frail, human need for sleep, Sherlock had not been inclined to bother John in bed. That, of course, was no longer the case.

Sleep.

Sleep was always going to be an issue.

Having done with so very little of it as a medical student, a resident, a surgeon and a soldier, John had become quite fond of sleep.

He loved the smell of clean bedding. He liked a firm mattress and soft pillows. He preferred a good, heavy duvet—the kind that weighed him down to the bed—in colder weather. In summer, he loved a wisp of thin cotton sheet over his naked body.

For John Watson, sleep was one of life’s great pleasures.

For Sherlock Holmes, sleep was an inconvenient requirement, to be conceded to only when absolutely necessary.

Of course, John was very familiar with Sherlock’s ascetic nocturnal habits. He hadn’t really expected them to change when they became lovers.

The fact was Sherlock did sleep. He just happened to do it in fits and starts during cases. Usually on the couch.

Between cases, he slept for longer periods. And when he did spend the night with John, the boneless way the man wrapped around him facilitated the soundest sleep John had ever known.

Otherwise, though, John didn’t really mind Sherlock taking him to bed only to leave it a few hours later to return to an experiment, his violin or his Mind Palace. The fact that he was returning to his brainwork as satiated as John would be going to sleep was consolation enough.

However, John had been accustomed to certain boundaries when it came to his bedroom. Prior to the change in their relationship, Sherlock had frequently (and unapologetically) kept him up when the work required it, but the detective had been very cautious about intruding on John’s room once he was asleep. Whether it had been in deference to John’s occasional nightmares (far rarer these days) or due to a grudging acceptance of his frail, human need for sleep, Sherlock had not been inclined to bother John in bed.

That, of course, was no longer the case.

________________

**Week three**

“John!”

John rolled over at the sound of his name, mentally cursing and plotting the murder of whichever private had been sent to wake him.

“How many?”

“John, wake up.”

John clawed his way through the fog, trying to figure out why Sherlock was in Kabul. Wait…

“John?”

He opened one eye and peered at the man sitting on the bed beside his hip, one knee drawn up. The light from the hall cast an eerie half-light on Sherlock’s face.

“Sherl—why? What is it?” he mumbled around his sleep-numbed tongue.

“Oh good, you’re up. I’ve been calling your name for some time. I knew you were a heavy sleeper; hadn’t realized how much effort it would take to rouse you. When you first moved in, I had assumed a soldier who’d served in combat would of necessity be a light sleeper: easily woken by noises, voices, movement, etc. A mechanism of the survival instinct, naturally. I was very surprised when my wakefulness and the violin didn’t bother you.”

John had propped himself up on his elbow leaning toward the space where his fiancé (his fiancé!) was sitting. The long sleeves of the blue dressing gown fluttered as Sherlock’s hands walked them both through his observations. John rubbed his eyes with one hand and yawned.

“But then I suppose your sleep patterns altered during your period of service and returned to the previous norm with civilian life, now affected only by an extended period removed from my playing—”

“Sherlock,” John started patiently. “What is it?”

The man regarded him for a moment before producing a small bowl from his lap. He thrust it beneath John’s nose “Tell me what you smell.”

John stared at him blankly. “Are you having me on?”

Sherlock’s brows crumpled. “No.”

“You woke me up at…” John glanced at the clock on the nightstand beside him. “At 2:30 in the morning to ask me to smell something?”

Sherlock huffed. “Focus, please. A case depends on the results of this experiment.”

“Which case?”

Sherlock scowled at him. “Is that important?”

“If you’re going to wake me up, it is.”

“A case, John. A case!”

“Which case?” John repeated.

Sherlock’s lips compressed. He pulled the bowl back.

“There isn’t a case, is there?” John said finally.

“There could be,” Sherlock replied. “My experiment could provide the means of identifying this poison without a post mortem.” His shoulders drooped a little.

“Oh, give it here,” John sighed. Sherlock’s smile was radiant; John’s heart skipped a beat. He kept his eyes fixed on the detective’s expectant face as he took a deep whiff. He considered for a moment and tried again. He shook his head. “Dunno. Oranges?”

Sherlock’s mouth turned down. He drew the bowl back and stared at it with malice. “No. No, that isn’t it.” He stood and started back toward the door, muttering to himself about tinctures and potency.

“This is not permission to wake me in the middle of the night, mind,” John called after him. He watched the taller man leave the room, waiting until the door had closed again before flopping back against the mattress with a chuckle. “Ah, bless.”

John rolled into Sherlock’s pillow, pulled it into his arms and snuggled it under his chin.

__________

**Week four**

“JOHN!”

The shelling was so loud. So close. He was screaming—trying to scream—but no sound was coming out. He was pinned to the ground, there was blood. So much blood.

“JOHN!”

The smell of the battle began to retreat as gentle hands stroked his face. John bolted upright, panting, bathed in sweat. Sherlock was sitting on the bed near his thigh, watching him carefully.

“Sh—r—”

“It’s all right, John. You’re safe. I’m here now.”

John drew several ragged breaths before sagging sideways to drop into his lover’s waiting embrace. As Sherlock’s arms closed tightly around him, John pressed into the lean body and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck. Exotic hair oil. Bergamot (earl grey tea—not Sherlock’s favourite, but they’d run out of oolong and hadn’t had time to go to the shops). Rosin. Just a hint of formaldehyde.

_Home._

John clung to Sherlock as the nightmare receded. One hand stroked his bare back as long fingers combed into his hair and massaged his scalp.

“You haven’t had one in some time.”

“Not since you first came back.”

“I’m…sorry.” It was barely a whisper.

John tightened his grip. “Not your fault. I’m probably always going to be just a bit, you know. Broken.”

“A bit. Nothing we can’t manage.”

John sighed. “It’s always the same thing: the day I got shot. But it is getting better. And I haven’t had any other dreams about the war since I met you, when all the other symptoms ended as well. More or less. Or at least they had until—”

“I died,” Sherlock filled in. “The limp returned.”

“Not for long. Just the shock, I think.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, “You had nightmares about that day, too.”

John hesitated. “Yes,” he admitted.

It hung heavily between them for several minutes.

“But I’m okay now,” John said softly. “Apart from the occasional one of these.”

Sherlock continued rubbing his back. “I used to check on you, you know.”

“When?”

“When you’d have nightmares. Before.”

“You did?”

“I didn’t enter your room,” Sherlock started. “But I’d look in, just to make sure...to know you were all right.”

John smiled to himself. “I’m glad.”

Sherlock drew away and John became aware of the fingers that had sneaked down to rest over the pulse in his throat. “Will I live, do you think?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth crooked up. “Your heart rate has slowed but it hasn’t returned to normal.”

“Huh,” John said blandly, lifting a hand to caress Sherlock’s jaw. “I wonder why that could be.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly. “I wonder.”

John leaned in, anticipating the kiss. Sherlock inched toward him, their noses bumping as they each angled their heads and managed to choose the same direction. Somehow they seemed to keep doing that.

Of course it had been only a month—plenty of time yet to work it out.

John chuckled, using his hand on Sherlock’s jaw to gently guide his lover. He closed the space between them, eyes fluttering closed on the beautiful image of Sherlock’s tongue appearing between perfect parted lips to slick their surface.

Sherlock sighed weakly as John’s mouth grazed over his own. John teased a little, catching the soft flesh of Sherlock’s cupid’s bow—once, twice, three times—only to release without pressure. Sherlock edged forward, his palms flat against John’s chest, offering his open mouth to his lover.

John licked then, dipping briefly into the warm, damp opening. Sherlock pounced. One hand slid up to wrap around John’s neck, holding the man still for his ministrations.

John surrendered as Sherlock ground their lips together, alternately sucking on John’s tongue and fucking John’s mouth with his own.

John’s cock throbbed, hardening rapidly. His free hand explored the folds of Sherlock’s dressing gown, finally finding the cotton-clad thigh. He slid his fingers up, running along the edge of the firm flesh he found beneath the soft fabric.

Sherlock groaned into his mouth. He rocked into John’s caress for a moment or two. Soon, though, he stilled John’s fingers, pulling them to his lips. He stood and shed his robe, pyjamas dropping to the floor shortly behind it.

John watched his lover strip with a dry mouth—the sight of Sherlock’s body was still a revelation. He reached out to drag fingertips over the smooth hip and down over the long, muscular thigh.

“You are so beautiful.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock smirked.

“Most people are idiots,” John replied, grinning.

Sherlock threw back the covers and pushed John down to the bed. His hands slid over John’s shoulders, fingertips dancing over the ridges of his scar. Sherlock clambered over him, straddling his hips and bracing above him on one hand. He leaned in, meeting John half way for another searing kiss as his nimble fingers continued to tease.

John groaned as Sherlock’s hand finally came into contact with his nipples. He arched off the bed, still a little surprised by his weakness for this particular touch.

Sherlock relinquished his mouth and suckled along the line of his throat, down over his clavicle and pectorals. He hovered there, looking up to meet John’s eyes as he raised one dark brow. 

“Please,” John groaned. “Please suck them—I need it—I can’t—”

“Shhh. It’s all right. I know.”

Sherlock flicked at one pink bud with his tongue while he stroked the other between his fingers. He licked across the firm flesh, long and slow, before finally drawing it into his heat.

“Ohhhhh…fuck. Your mouth. Sh-should be illegal.”

Sherlock’s laughter rumbled against John’s sensitive flesh. “For more reasons than one, I would think,” he said, quickly returning to the task at hand.

John made fists in Sherlock’s hair, trying not to appear too desperate to hold the magical lips and tongue where they were. He released somewhat only to allow Sherlock to change sides.

John shivered as Sherlock nipped him gently. Oddly, he’d never have thought he would enjoy biting. But then, he was still adapting to the idea that everything he had known about sex—known about himself during sex—was changing. And not just because he was sleeping with a man. It was the man himself: Sherlock was simply unable to stop being curious.

As Sherlock discovered John, so John was discovering John, too.

John returned to himself to find Sherlock staring quizzically at his chest. “You never touch yourself here,” he rubbed one nipple with his thumb. “Not when I’m inside you; not when I take you in my mouth. You are not self-conscious during sex generally, so I have to conclude it is a habit learned during your experiences with previous lovers.”

“No. I don’t—I don’t know why,” John panted. “Just not something I’ve ever done.”

“I want to see it, John. I want to watch you squeeze and twist and rub them while I suck you. Will you do that for me?”

John swallowed and nodded, unable to find his voice. Sherlock smirked as John’s cock tented his pyjama bottoms.

“Good.” Sherlock licked one more stripe across each nipple before beginning to make his way down over John’s ribs. He hesitated. “You’re very sweaty.”

“Sorry. Bit more than the usual, isn’t it?”

“Hmmm...interesting.” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“What is?”

“Not entirely unpleasant.”

“Really?” It was John’s turn to sound surprised. Sherlock was, without question, the world’s worst housekeeper, but when it came to personal grooming habits generally he was as fastidious as a cat.

“At least not in these circumstances. Earthy.” He inhaled deeply at John’s armpit before continuing to nuzzle his way toward John’s belly.

John chuckled from the light graze of lips over his ticklish spots. “Rank, more like.”

Sherlock tongued his navel. “Musky. Masculine. Mine,” he corrected, rumbling up against John’s flesh.

“If you say so,” John hummed happily, eyes closed, as Sherlock’s clever fingers caught on the waistband of his pyjamas and tugged them down over his hips. He lifted his bum to accommodate, sighing as firm hands smoothed around to squeeze the cheeks.

Sherlock teased his tongue over John’s hip, plumping his arse as he did. John squirmed, desperately arching toward the mouth that was kissing and licking everywhere around his cock.

“Patience,” Sherlock tsked. He slid one hand from John’s bottom around to fondle his balls, his mouth edging ever closer to the target.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John groaned.

Without his hands, Sherlock finally grazed the head of John’s cock with his tongue. He lapped at it softly as it strained toward John’s belly. John started to settle his hands in Sherlock’s hair.

“Ah, ah,” Sherlock said firmly. “Where are those meant to be?”

John stared down at him.

Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “I want to watch.”

Shaking fingers made their way back to John’s chest. He laid his palms lightly over his nipples, massaging gently. Sherlock murmured his approval before easing John’s cock into his mouth.

John hissed at the incredible sensation, quickly moving to grasp the hard points between thumbs and forefingers. He twisted gently, moaning as Sherlock tongued his cock and took him deep. “Jes—oh, fuck, never…”

He glanced down to find Sherlock watching him. He should have felt awkward or embarrassed, but instead he felt incredibly sexy. He tugged on the aching buds, canting his hips toward the incredible suction of his lover’s mouth. He held Sherlock’s gaze, the moment made all the hotter by the raw desire he saw there.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John moaned. He gasped at the wanton, wet noises of Sherlock’s mouth. He tweaked both nipples as his lover continued to suck him hard.

Finally Sherlock pulled back and slid his clever tongue across the head of John’s cock again, gathering the fluid still leaking from John’s body before crawling up to allow John to taste himself on the lovely mouth. John sucked at the offered tongue, moaning helplessly as Sherlock slipped his long legs up to straddle his hips.

Sherlock pushed up to brace on his hands, now planted on either side of John’s head, and hovered over him. “I’m going to ride you. Would you like that?”

“Fuck, yes. God, please, anything,” John babbled.

Sherlock smirked, reaching across to the night table for the lube. “I want you to watch me prepare myself, John. Don’t look away.”

He reared back to sit on his heels in John’s lap, the round, firm bum cradling John’s desperate cock. Slowly, he dispensed the lube into his hands and slicked his fingers.

John licked his lips.

Sherlock sighed, bending to reach behind him. He groaned as he breached his own entrance. He arched up, eyes closed. John didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so achingly beautiful yet blindingly erotic. His very own fallen angel.

“So gorgeous,” John croaked.

“Can you imagine what I’m doing?” Sherlock panted, opening his eyes briefly.

John nodded, reaching out to steady the man’s hips as Sherlock ground down onto his own hand.

“Don’t...don’t touch me, touch yourself,” Sherlock bit out. John reached one hand back to his chest. “Yes, like that. Just like that.” Sherlock grunted with the exertion of the awkward position. “Ahhhh, two fingers now, John.”

John bit his lip, the heat in his core building almost to the point of pain. He watched, mesmerized, as his lover loomed above him, impaled on his own fingers.

“Oh!” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Three—so good. Soon. Almost ready.” Sherlock sighed again. “I used to imagine this. When I was gone. You haunted me; made my body betray me. Couldn’t stop. Felt so good.”

John could not help his hips bucking up into Sherlock’s body.

“Touched myself, thinking of you inside me, fucking myself on you until you came, shouting my name. Only you have ever made me want—crave that. No one else…oh, John!”

“Jes—” John’s ears were buzzing with the blood that had rushed to his head. “Fuck, Sherlock.”

“Did you—uuhhngg—think about me?”

John remembered the first time he’d woken with the confusion of a non-platonic dream about his former flatmate. “When I found that graffiti and you spun me around, held my face in your hands. I dreamt about you…kissing me. But I didn’t know...I didn’t understand...”

Sherlock smiled down at him. “And later?”

“Once. When I thought you were…gone. I dreamt we were snogging on the sofa. I thought it was because of everyone saying we were…you know.”

“And?”

“Then I moved back here, and you were so…lovesick…I started waking up…”

“I made you come in your sleep,” Sherlock crooned. “Your body knew you wanted me. Your conscious mind had to catch up-p...” Sherlock stuttered as he began to withdraw his fingers. “Mmmmmmmmm. Ready.”

He reached back for more lube and rose up on his knees. His hand dropped behind him to wrap around John. He coated him liberally before leaning forward to kiss John’s slack mouth. He sank down onto John’s cock with another deep, resonant sigh, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “So good, John. You feel so good.” He lifted off and rocked back, hands on John’s waist.

John whimpered, fingers still busy on his own chest as Sherlock’s hot passage closed around him.

Sherlock slowly circled his hips, grinding down on John’s prick before sliding up and nearly off. He sank back down again, biting his bottom lip. He leaned forward over his lover, dark curls nearly brushing John’s jaw.

“You’re so big, John, so very thick,” Sherlock purred, his hips rotating sinfully. “At first, I worried I might not be able to take you. It had been so long.” He panted a little, clenching around John inside him. “But I did. All of your huge, hot cock inside me—my mouth, my arse—even when it hurts.”

John paled. “No!” he gasped, reaching for Sherlock’s hips. “We said—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Shhhh,” Sherlock soothed. “The pain doesn’t last, the pleasure does.” He pried John’s fingers from his hips and placed them back over John’s reddened nipples.

Sherlock continued moving, rocking John’s cock in and out of his body at a slow, steady pace. They drifted together, John thrusting up into Sherlock’s downward motion, unable to control his body’s need to move.

After some time, Sherlock leaned back, grasping his heels as his movements sped up. He began to pound down onto John, his arse slapping wickedly against John’s hips and thighs and his own cock bouncing up against his belly. “Oh, John!”

“Yes, love. Fuck, yes—Sherlock—” John slid one hand over the taught, smooth surface of his lover’s abdomen as it worked above him before moving down to wrap his fist around the man’s neglected prick. Sherlock keened as John pumped with the rhythm of their bodies. “I’m going to come inside you. Fill you. Make you mine.”

Sherlock moaned. “Come...in me. Please, p-please...oh, god...”

John could feel his body tightening as orgasm approached. He tweaked each nipple hard with one hand, sped up his pace on Sherlock’s cock with the other. It was too much—too good. He wanted Sherlock to finish with him, but...

“FUCK! Sherlock, god I love you so much!”

He froze, his body pulsing into Sherlock, who moaned long and low. He pushed down hard onto John, tightening around him as he rode the aftershocks. John slid both hands up and over his lover’s chest. “Love you, love you...”

John thrust up into Sherlock a few more times as the wave washed over him and the warmth of post-coital bliss started to take over. His breathing began to slow as he reached for Sherlock.

The curly head dropped; Sherlock was still breathing hard and covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. He wavered, allowing himself to be guided down to lay over John’s body. He buried his face in John’s shoulder. John kissed the long neck and across one shoulder.

“Love, let me help you,” John said softly.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, not moving.

“C’mon,” John pressed. “I can feel how hard you are. Let me.”

Sherlock lifted only enough to claim John’s mouth. John slid a hand between them and awkwardly resumed stroking the throbbing shaft. He rolled his fist over the head to collect the pre-come gathered there and smoothed it back down his lover’s length.

Sherlock gasped into their kiss, pushing back up onto his hands and starting to thrust into John’s fist, inadvertently contracting around the head of John’s cock still inside him. “Yes, oh, yes, John.”

“Tell me, love. Tell me what you want.”

“Make me come. Please.”

John kissed him, teasing his tongue over the full lips. “Your wish...”

Within minutes, Sherlock was crying out with his own release, head thrown back, shooting thick ribbons over John’s belly and hand. He began to tremble as his body spent itself, and John reached up to steady him.

“Easy now,” he murmured, pulling the taller man back down into his embrace. “Shhh...” He kissed Sherlock’s brow.

“Good dreams now,” Sherlock muttered into John’s chest.

John yawned, snuggling Sherlock against him. “Yes, love. I’ll have very sweet dreams indeed.”

 __________

**Week six**

“John?”

John sat up immediately at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He had only just started to doze off so he ascended to consciousness relatively quickly. Still, he was a touch disoriented and leaning toward alarm at the tone of his lover’s voice. “What is it, love? Are you all right?”

Sherlock was standing just inside their bedroom, the door still open behind him as though he were debating whether or not to flee. “I…”

John reached out and switched on the light beside him. Sherlock was shifting his weight from foot to foot, twisting one corner of the too-short jumper he’d pulled on over his pyjamas. His eyes were a bit unfocussed.

“What are you wearing?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Felt like you.”

“Come here,” John said softly. He extended a hand.

Sherlock padded toward him on bare feet, looking somewhat bewildered. He sat on the edge of the bed, feet still flat on the floor, his back to John.

“What is it, love?” John asked again, rubbing soothing circles into Sherlock’s back.

“I’m so tired.”

John frowned. “Why haven’t you come to bed?”

“I have work. The case…”

“Did you nap on the sofa?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Tried. Couldn’t.”

“S’all right,” John murmured.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. No. I should be able to—I’ve always been able to—this is all wrong!”

John sat up and wrapped his arms around the man, one hand flat against his wool-covered chest. He could feel the ever-present dog tags beneath his favourite jumper. “You’ve just pushed yourself a little too far, that’s all.”

“I tried to sleep—waited almost an hour. All I could think about was the feel of your chest under my cheek; the sound of your breathing.” Sherlock broke off. “I couldn’t get to sleep withoutyou.”

John heard the worry; Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate _needing_ someone. Not like this. “Shhh. You’re all right.”

“Help me.”

Something twisted deep in John’s gut at the plaintive tone. He drew Sherlock back against him. “Course I will, love.” He kissed Sherlock’s neck. “Let’s get this off. Come on—arms up.”

He tugged the jumper, and the cotton jersey pyjama top with it, over Sherlock’s head. He dropped them on the end of the bed and placed a gentle kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. John reached across and turned the light out then nudged Sherlock to lie down. He rolled the taller man over onto his back and snuggled up against his side, stroking Sherlock’s hair.

“Deep breaths, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes still wide. He sucked air in noisily through his mouth.

“Close your eyes, love. And breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Sherlock shifted awkwardly, as though trying to find a good place for his hands. John captured one, kissed the knuckles and laid it gently at his side.

“We’re going to start at your toes.”

“Start what at my toes?” One eye peeked open.

“Just concentrate on my voice, love,” John soothed. “Listen to what I’m saying and follow along.”

He continued carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he spoke, taking care to rub firmly over the scalp as Sherlock had done for him.

“Now, I want you to clench your toes, as tightly as you can, and hold that,” John instructed softly. Sherlock snorted. “If you please.”

Finally the taller man responded. The long toes curled. John continued petting the man’s hair and counted in his head.

“Now let go,” he said. He waited for a moment. “And again.”

Sherlock complied more quickly this time. John smiled.

“And release. Good. Very good, love.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s brow. “Now your feet. Tighten the muscles as much as you can. That’s it.”

Sherlock’s breathing began to even out as he held the position.

“Good. Now release.” John stroked his other hand over Sherlock’s abdomen. “And once more.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed.

“Ankles next,” John continued. “That’s right. Good. And release. See? This is easy.” Sherlock earned another kiss. “And again.”

“Silly,” Sherlock muttered.

“Shhhh. Come on—calves.” John counted out loud now, his hand continuing its path over Sherlock’s tummy.

By the time they’d reached his bum, Sherlock was becoming very mellow, indeed. Loopy, even.

“Clenching my bottom, John. Would you like to watch?” he giggled, attempting to roll over.

“You really are done for, aren’t you?” John chuckled. “Tighten up, love. That’s right.” John leaned in to whisper right in Sherlock’s ear, teasing the shell with the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock made a mewling noise, leaning into the caress.

“Now relax,” John purred.

“Mmmmm.”

“That’s right, love. Feels good, doesn’t it? Once more, come on,” John ordered. Sherlock complied, wiggling ever so slightly as his clenched cheeks arched his pelvis up.

“Tummy,” John commanded, placing a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. He smoothed his hand over the surface of Sherlock’s abdomen as the muscles went rigid. “That’s it. Now let go.” He kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “And again. Nice and tight, and hold it.”

“S’good,” Sherlock mumbled.

John chuckled softly. “Yes, it is. Relax, love.” He slid his hand up to cover one nipple, gently cupping his palm around the pectoral muscle. “Now these. C’mon—tighter.”

Sherlock flexed under his hand, but John could tell he was finally beginning to fade.

“Good. Let go now.” He waited a moment. “Once more, love.” There was no response but very even breathing. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“Call’strade,” Sherlock mumbled, his head dropping to one side.

“Course I will, love.” John smiled. Mission accomplished.

He continued massaging Sherlock’s scalp for a few minutes—just until the man released a high-pitched sigh and shifted onto his side. And then proceeded to snore.

John started. He’d never noticed a snore before. Interesting.

He chuckled to himself, nuzzling into the back of Sherlock’s neck and cuddling up against his back. He tugged the covers up firmly and tucked them both in before wrapping one strong arm around the sleeping detective.

“See you in the morning,” he whispered.

 ____________________

**Week nine**

“ _John_.”

John drifted awake with the sound of the deep voice panting into his ear. He felt arms around him; he smiled as he realized Sherlock had come to join him in bed.

“Hello,” he said softly.  He wrapped his own arm over the ones encircling him and drew one long-fingered hand to his lips. He wrapped his own hand around it then, and tucked it back into his chest. He lingered in the hazy place between sleep and full awareness, delighting in the warmth of the body pressed against his back.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied, kissing into the space just behind John’s ear. The hand in John’s wiggled free and began a fluttering path toward John’s crotch.

“Hmmm.”

The fingers delved beneath the pants he’d worn to bed. He’d arrived home late—too tired to eat, too tired even to change into pyjamas. Sherlock’s fist closed around him and began to stroke gently. John groaned, painfully aware that he would not be able to accommodate. Not tonight.

“I just can’t, love. I’m so tired. The hospital today. Five vehicle collision on the motorway. Lost two patients.”

“I’ll do all the work. You won’t have to do a thing,” Sherlock whispered, burrowing his nose in John’s hair as he pressed his erection against John’s bottom. “Promise.”

“Oh, god, I want to. I just…I just can’t,” John muttered miserably. “I’m absolutely knackered.”

Sherlock continued stroking John’s apathetic prick for a few minutes. He pressed kisses into John’s neck as he finally stilled his hand. “You’re certain.”

“I’m all in, Sherlock.”

There was a long pause. Finally Sherlock sighed, relaxing into John’s body. “All right.”

“Thank you,” John whispered. Sherlock’s hand settled itself against the slight pooch of his tummy. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“I know.”

“Will you—?” John hesitated.

“Will I what?”

“Will you stay with me? Just until I’m out?” John asked. “I sleep so much better when I fall asleep in your arms.”

Sherlock tensed for a moment. Shortly, though, his hold tightened. “You hadn’t said.”

“I didn’t want you to feel any pressure to be here,” John said matter-of-factly.

“Pressure?” Sherlock snorted dramatically. “Honestly, John Watson. You can be utterly absurd when you choose.”

The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up—it was a little too effusive for his Sherlock. “It’s all right. You don’t have to stay. I know you have things to do.”

“No. I’ll stay.”

“Sherlock.”

“Hush. Go to sleep.”

John chewed on Sherlock’s reaction a little (vowing to file it away so they could discuss it later) but was unable to fight his body’s bone-deep weariness for long. He began to drift, burrowing into the cocoon of his lover’s arms.

“Okay.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock murmured. “Sleep.”

“Wake me if we have a case,” John yawned.

“I will,” Sherlock whispered.  “But for now…” He pressed his cheek against the back of John’s head. “For now, my dear, just rest.”

________________

**Last night**

John stared at the ceiling, one hand splayed open over his chest. He should be sleeping (he had a shift at the hospital in the morning), but it was no use. He’d changed position a dozen times trying to get comfortable, to no avail. Each time he ended up turning to watch the door, waiting for Sherlock to appear—to cuddle, to talk, to bother him about a case or his latest experiment, to shag, even to sleep.

It didn’t much matter to John.

He’d thought the sleepless nights he’d spent after The Fall were the worst he would ever know. But he’d never realized nights could be so long when the person you loved more than your own life was so near yet just out of reach.

John stood and marched to the door, still naked from their quick, rough fuck in the sitting room earlier that night. Somehow Sherlock had managed to remain fully dressed for the proceedings, sending John up to their room with a deeply satisfied chuckle and a firm swat to his exposed arse as John bent to pick up his discarded clothes.

He could hear Sherlock pacing now as he made his way down the stairs; he was still puzzled by the man’s restlessness.

They’d finished their last case only the day before (though Sherlock had yet to give in to the need for a long sleep). And Sherlock wasn’t bored, at least not as far as John could tell. In fact, he’d been working on a project with Molly that had seemed to entertain him. They hadn’t seen or heard from Mycroft or Harry for over a week. Even Anderson had obliged them by taking a leave of absence. 

All in all, John couldn’t think of a single reason for Sherlock to be disquieted. But he was—had been since Remembrance Sunday.

Something was bothering him, and he wouldn’t say.

John stepped into the sitting room, surprised to find it dark save for the light coming in through the windows from the street lamps. Sherlock had stopped in front of the window, leaning one shoulder against the glass to stare out at the night.

John watched quietly for a moment, enjoying the unearthly beauty of the faint light on high cheekbones and pale skin. The man was still wearing John’s favourite purple shirt, the buttons half undone from their previous activities. John could just make out the reflection on the small metal tags resting against Sherlock’s chest. His tags. His heart.

“Come in if you’re staying,” Sherlock said softly.

John moved toward him. He pressed up against Sherlock’s back, wrapping one arm around to fist into the purple silk. He rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

“I—don’t ask that,” Sherlock said sharply. “Not tonight.”

John recoiled a little from the rebuff. He lifted his head. “Why not? Maybe I can help.”

“Not with this.”

John was a little wounded. “Sherlock, if something is wrong, you need to tell me.”

“Even if telling you will accomplish nothing?”

John hesitated. “How can you be sure?”

Sherlock sighed, head dropping against the window. “Leave it, John. For tonight. Just leave it.”

They stood that way for some time, John still wrapped around Sherlock and holding him tight.

“Come to bed.”

John could feel some of the tension easing out of his lover’s body. Sherlock released a heavy breath, leaving a tiny patch of fog on the window.

“Sleep with me.”

Sherlock dropped his head back. “I don’t know that I can.”

“Hold me.”

Long fingers covered John’s hand, still tangled in the dress shirt. “Yes. Yes, all right.”

Sherlock turned and looked down at John, his expression sombre. He ran one finger over the side of John’s face.

“I love you,” John said.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak; John silenced him with a kiss. He didn’t want to hear the reply tonight. Not tonight.

He turned and walked toward the door, knowing Sherlock was only a few steps behind him. This would be enough for now. They would share a bed, warmth and, perhaps, sleep. Nothing more needed to be said.

Whatever it was, they would mend it. First thing in the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies once again for the delay--hopefully these two chapters make up for it. A little angst is entering the story now and there will be some dark moments ahead. But first there will be Christmas (Chapter 12)!


	11. Lies we tell ourselves...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though John knew it was difficult to for a day that begins with projectile vomit, a debilitating headache, overwhelming guilt and a missing fiancé to get any worse, it had.

“Sherlock?”

John padded through the sitting room and the kitchen on his way to Sherlock’s “lab”. He pushed the door wide and poked his head into the room, noting quickly that it was empty.

The floor—which there was now much more of since they’d moved Sherlock’s bed upstairs and donated John’s to the charity shop, at Sherlock’s insistence—was scattered with hundreds of photographs.

The photos had arrived by courier the day before from their latest client, a cruise ship operator anxious to sort out a murder suicide on one of their recent tours of the Greek islands. Sherlock had been to see the ship (now docked at Southampton), but wanted as much of a visual record of the days leading up to the crime as possible. Along with footage from the ship’s few surveillance cameras sent on DVD, the ship’s official photographer had sent everything he’d taken on a memory stick. The company had then canvassed passengers for any snaps they might have from the period in question.

The resulting avalanche of photos (John still wasn’t sure why the company had printed everything instead of sending them digitally) was now spread out across the floor, the box they’d arrived in discarded in the far corner of the room. It looked like someone had dumped the pictures out and haphazardly strewn them about, but John knew better. Sherlock was untidy, but he always had a system.

John retreated from the room, closing the door behind him carefully to avoid any air movement that might shift the tenuous organizational arrangement within.

He stood in the hall for a moment, feeling a bit nauseated, as he tried to think where Sherlock might have gone.

John was hung over, of course, but unfortunately there was much more to his sick feeling than that. He was missing a few pieces of the night before, but he remembered enough to know that it was more than a bit not good.

He’d fucked up. Spectacularly.

___________________

**Yesterday**

John pulled the dirty scrubs over his head and sat heavily on the bench in the doctors’ changing room. It had been a long, hectic shift and he was exhausted. He reached up and then forward, massaging his bad shoulder as he tried to stretch it out.

He stood again, stripped down to his pants and grabbed his towel and shaving kit. While he didn’t always shower at work, today it was a must.

He strode to the showers and selected the first cubicle, pushing the door closed behind him, and turned the water on. As the steam began to build, he hung his towel, pulled his pants off and sucked in a breath as he stepped under the scalding spray.

He scrubbed vigorously for a few minutes, trying to wash away the sweat, blood, bodily fluids and god knew what all else that had accumulated over the course of the day. Once he felt reasonably clean, he braced his hands against the cold tiles, closed his eyes and let the water pour over his head.

Soon he could go home, and he was very much looking forward to that.

Sherlock’s disquiet—evident to John following Remembrance Sunday and culminating in the strange night at the window—seemed to have dissipated. John had meant to speak to him about it, but the very next morning Sherlock had been pleasant. Conversational. Affectionate. Which might have been a worry if Sherlock hadn’t also been rude, offensive and arrogant at a crime scene that afternoon. He’d called Anderson (newly returned to duty) a half-wit and informed Sally that she most likely had gonorrhoea.

So John had been relieved, and things had been really lovely for a fortnight.

This morning had been no exception. He’d woken very early to find Sherlock standing over him with a tray. John had assumed it was breakfast in bed, which—technically—it was. There _was_ food and eating was involved. However as most of the food items were spreadable and contained little nutritional value, he couldn’t classify the activity as a meal.

John straightened, grinning to himself as he reached for some shampoo. He just hoped Sherlock had washed the sheets as he’d asked.

Forty minutes later, John was whistling on his way to the tube when he received a text.

__

> _Watson! Stu, Frank and Des here, in London on leave. Pub?_

John stared at the message. The three of them? All on leave at the same time? That was dangerous.

__

> _Love to! Where and when? BTW how did u get this number?_

__

> _Your sister. Grenadier at 7_

John shook his head, a little amazed any of them had remembered he had a sister, let alone her name.

__

> _C U there_

John felt a twinge as he thought about what might be waiting for him at home, but quickly reconsidered. He hadn’t seen his mates in years and they wouldn’t have much time. Sherlock would understand.

Maybe.

__

> _Army mates want 2 meet at pub. On leave, not much time. Want 2 join?_

John waited, fully expecting a negative reply (if Sherlock’s response to the visit from his retired RAMC buddies nearly four years ago was anything to go by). His phone vibrated.

__

> _Interesting. Meet where?_

John was taken by surprise. He hesitated, wondering at the feeling of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. He should be happy Sherlock wanted to share this with him, and yet…

He shook it off, quickly sending the details. Of course he wanted Sherlock there. Why wouldn’t he?

By the time he stepped out of the Hyde Park Corner station, though, the unease had returned. He hated himself a little for the reason, but somehow a part of him had known this was only a matter of time.

It had been one thing to tell Mike about his new relationship. Stamford was thoroughly unprejudiced and had always been a kind-hearted, understanding, somewhat fatherly sort. And telling his sister had been easy. Harry was not at all fussed about him suddenly batting for both sides. (Though, of course, she reserved the right to express her disapproval of the man John had chosen.) Lestrade had taken it in his stride and neither Molly nor Mrs. Hudson had been surprised. John had even told a perfect stranger in an airport without hesitation.

But this—this was different.

These were men he’d fought alongside; lived and shared everything with…including pulling women.

He was Three-Continents Watson, for god’s sake. His exploits had become the stuff of legend (or so Des had once told him). All the other lads had envied his gift for chatting up women: disarm; amuse; flatter (carefully); seduce.

John really didn’t think his mates hated gay or bisexual people, but how would they react when their womanizing idol turned out to be marrying a man? Would they feel duped?

He couldn’t imagine what they might say to him, or—worse yet—to Sherlock. That he could not bear.

Maybe it wouldn’t come up. _Scratch that_. Sherlock would be there. Of course it would come up. The man had no filter. _Damn it_.

He strode ahead, his mind made up, hoping to catch Sherlock before the others arrived. He had no idea what he was going to say, though he knew it would go one of two ways:

  1. Sherlock would tell him it was “interesting”, offer a list of reasons why it was perfectly reasonable for John to be feeling this way and suggest they turn the whole thing into an experiment to determine how long it would take a bisexual man to come out to his straight friends, or
  2. Sherlock would say nothing for days, looking at John only with that same vaguely haunted disappointment John had seen during the first few seconds at the pool.



Whatever happened, it was going to raise hell at home. But he just knew he couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not like this.

As he approached the pub, he spotted the familiar dark coat near the stairs. He was flooded with relief until he realized Sherlock was speaking with someone. Des. _Shit_.

“Watson!” Des called, spying John over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Look who I found.”

John raised a hand and fixed a smile on his face. Sherlock turned to watch him approach with the familiar intense gaze that often made John feel like the only person Sherlock could see (which, given the man’s ability to concentrate, was probably true). A half-smile curved the mouth that had been stretched around John’s prick only that morning. John began to sweat.

“Des, mate,” John said cheerfully, “How are you?” John stepped past Sherlock, slapping the man on the shoulder as he did, and embraced Des in a bear hug.

“Look at you! You’re going grey, you sod,” Des complained as he looked John over. “I’m only a year younger than you are—stop that at once!”

“Bastard,” John chuckled. “Where are the others?”

“Inside, holding a table. I thought I’d nip out for a fag and then who did I see but your partner in crime here.” Des gestured to where Sherlock was standing quietly, hands clasped behind his back.

“I invited Sherlock to join us—you don’t mind, do you?”

“Course not!” Des crowed. “All that shite on your blog? Have to find out how much of it is true, don’t we? Who better to tell us than the man himself.”

Sherlock watched John, his face revealing nothing. “I assure you, John posts as many of the factual details about our cases as he can. It’s all quite true.”

“Fuck off. Not really.”

Sherlock nodded.

Des hooted. “Well, that’s it, then. Watson, you are officially as mad as you were in uniform. You’d have to be to chase criminals around London for a living.”

“Well, I am still practicing…” John insisted.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Des wrapped an arm around John’s neck and dragged him toward the door. “You can tell us all about your brilliant civilian life inside. C’mon, Holmes. Let us commence to drinking!”

Two hours later, John was nearly three pints in (more than he’d had in one sitting in almost four years) and beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, he was going to get off easy.

Sherlock had been relatively polite while being grilled by John’s mates about their work and then had sat observing and nursing his whiskey as the three men caught up.

Stu and Frank had only just begun the stories from the glory days when it finally happened.

“Oi, what the hell is that?” Stu snatched John’s left hand from his now-empty glass. “I thought you said in your last email that you divorced her. What’s-her-name.”

“Mary,” John filled in, starting to feel uneasy again.

“You wearing the ring for good luck or something?” Frank asked.

John shook his head vigorously, and then quickly thought better of it as the room went a bit fuzzy. “No, no. It’s just…”

Des hooted again. “Watson, you dog—have you already caught yourself another bird?”

“Naw! Noooo, mate,” John insisted, trying to laugh. “Not me. There’s no one.”

John couldn’t help watching his lover as the words left his lips. _Fuck. Fucking fuck._

“Yeah, trust you,” Des laughed. “Probably, what, chasing every fit nurse in the hospital?”

John laughed. It sounded hollow, even to his own ears. He knew Sherlock would know there was something wrong. He only hoped the man would understand.

“I am dry, lads,” Stu announced, standing with a bit of a wobble. “Who needs one?”

“Me,” John replied a bit miserably, raising a hand. “Definitely need another.”

_________________________

**The morning after…continued**

John shifted in the uncomfortable faux leather chair. He checked his watch again; he’d been fifteen minutes early but now they were running ten minutes behind. He sighed, straightened his tie and dropped his chin to his chest.

Though he knew it was difficult for a day that begins with projectile vomit, a debilitating headache, overwhelming guilt and a missing fiancé to get any worse, it had.

He’d left the flat early, knowing full well there was no point in hanging about. Sherlock was gone and he was not answering his phone.

John had no memory of getting home, but he’d woken in their bed in only his pants. Somehow knowing that the man had tended to his sorry drunken arse and put him to bed made everything worse. John had wanted to go looking for him—to try and explain, to apologize, to beg forgiveness—but there simply hadn’t been time.

Today he had to meet with Mary and the court-appointed mediator.

The last thing John wanted to be doing was picking apart a failed relationship, especially when he was terrified he might be looking at another one. The most important relationship he’d ever had. The one he feared might actually destroy him to live without.

And, frankly, he was not in a conciliatory mood.   

He was angry with Mycroft for not responding to his calls. He was angry with Greg for replying to his text asking if he knew where Sherlock was with “Busy. Working. Later.” He was angry with this mediator for keeping him waiting. He was angry with Mary for being late.

Mostly, though, he was furious with himself. There simply were not enough words in the English language to describe how much he despised his own weakness, cowardice and cruelty.

He knew he would never forget the look on Sherlock’s face when he’d said it: “Naw! Noooo, mate. Not me. There’s no one.” It was the same as the day John had corrected Sherlock in front of the idiot at the bank, calling himself the detective’s colleague rather than allowing the initial introduction as his friend to stand.

The look was subtle, hardly noticeable—a slight shifting of his gaze, down and away, and a gentle softening of the barely-there smile. Not enough for anyone who didn’t know Sherlock to recognize, but enough for John to know he had sliced through the rarely seen and never discussed but surprisingly sensitive underbelly of the man he loved.

He was a bastard.

The door to the conference room bounced open and John jumped to his feet on reflex. The man bustling in glanced up from his iPad; he appeared quite startled to find John in the room.

“Oh! You’ve been waiting,” he said. He glanced out the door toward the desk in the hallway. “Honestly—that girl! I have never had so much difficulty training an assistant.” He set his coffee and tablet down on the table then stepped back to close the door behind him. “I’m terribly sorry. Please forgive our unprofessional beginning. I would have come in sooner had I known you were here.”

The man—not much taller than John but at least twenty years older—smoothed hands down the front of the mid-range brown tweed jacket he wore with a plain white shirt and strange orange tie. His thinning grey hair was standing in tufts on the top of his head and his heavy-rimmed spectacles were in the process of sliding down his nose. Had it not been for the high-tech device he’d been carrying, the man would have looked perfectly at home in a library, circa 1978.

“I’m quite sure Mrs. Watson will be here shortly. In the meantime—”

The older man was cut off as the door opened again. The same young woman who had shown John in was holding the door wide to allow Mary to enter.

“Ms Morstan for you, Mr. Hanson,” the girl offered.

“Hargreaves!” the older man called after the girl as the door closed. “Goodness only knows how she’s answering the telephone.” He sighed and turned his attention to Mary. “I apologize. Mrs. Watson, please do come in and make yourself comfortable. I was about to offer Dr. Watson something to drink. Would you like coffee, or tea? Perhaps something cold?”

“No. Thank you,” Mary replied. “And it’s Ms Morstan.”

“Of course,” the man replied. He looked at John, who quickly shook his head (his stomach still wasn’t up to it).

Mr. Hargreaves moved to hold a chair for Mary and John studied his wife. He hadn’t seen her since she’d turned up at the hospital all those weeks ago, ostensibly to return his Led Zeppelin CD (not his), and he’d ended up blurting out that he and Sherlock were together. Her hair was still short and a lovely shade of golden brown. The dark hazel eyes, slightly upturned nose and full mouth were just as he remembered. She was taller than he, more noticeable today in her heels ( _Had she stopped wearing heels while they were together?_ ), and had a lush figure many women would envy and many men would covet.

All told, the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Watson was a beautiful woman.

Mary returned his look with something much cooler as she sat across the table from him. The mediator watched their interaction with interest as he gestured for John to sit and took his own seat.

“Excellent. As we’re all here, we’ll begin. As you know, I am Geoffrey Hargreaves, and I’ve been appointed to act as mediator in this case,” the man began, turning back to his iPad and deftly sliding his fingers over the screen. “As I have spoken with each of you independently on the telephone, at the advice of your solicitors, we can dispense with many of the introductory comments and turn our attention immediately to the issue at hand: two divorce petitions.” He looked up at them both. “Who would like to begin?”

John ground his teeth, but tried to force a smile. “I think I would like to hear from Mary first.”

The woman across from him frowned a little, but adjusted quickly.

“If that is acceptable to you, Ms Morstan?” Mr. Hargreaves began. When Mary nodded he continued. “Dr. Watson indicated in his petition that you had parted amicably following your infidelity and that you were in full agreement with the divorce. Would you say that is a fair assessment of your separation?”

“No.”

“I see,” Hargreaves said matter-of-factly, using the stylus he had pulled from his breast pocket to scribble on the screen in front of him. “In what particulars does this account differ from your own recollection of events?”

“I did leave John, but he drove me to seek companionship elsewhere,” Mary began, leaning in. “He was in love with someone else right from the begin—”

“I apologize,” Mr. Hargreaves said gently. “I may have misspoken. Rather than dealing with the contents of your own petition, I would like to establish first any issues with the details contained in Dr. Watson’s petition.”

Mary started to reply then stopped. She hesitated for a moment. “There is more to it than that.”

“Were you engaged in an extra-marital relationship with one…Mark Brown?”

“Yes.”

“Did you inform Dr. Watson of this relationship and express a desire to dissolve your marriage?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you tell Dr. Watson you would not contest the divorce?”

“It wasn’t like that. He knew—”

“Yes?” Mr. Hargreaves glanced up, nudging his specs up with the tip of one finger. “He knew…?”

“John wanted out of the marriage as much as I did. He let me go on about cheating because he didn’t want a fight. He was waiting for that Sherlock Holmes to come back. He knew he wasn’t dead!”

“Sherlock Holmes?” the mediator looked very interested. He slid a finger across the tablet face. “The detective? Oh, yes. Here it is.” He read for a moment before turning his attention to John. “Were you aware that Mr. Holmes was alive?”

“I found out two days before everyone else did. That was two weeks after Mary told me about Mark. She’d already moved out by then.”

“Were you involved in a relationship with Mr. Holmes prior to the breakdown of your relationship with Ms Morstan?”

“When Sherlock faked his suicide, I thought I had lost my best friend. I cared deeply about him, but we were not romantically involved until September 1st of this year.”

“Bollocks,” Mary snapped. “No one mourns like that for a friend. No one.” Mary’s cheeks pinkened. “And you had to have found out he was alive. Why else would you have given up so easily?”

John addressed his next comments to her. “Mary, I would never have taken those vows with you if I hadn’t meant to keep them. I swear to you I was not involved with Sherlock before we met. I honestly had no idea how deep my feelings ran until I moved back in with him.” He licked his lips. “I let you go because you asked me to. It’s what you wanted. I won’t lie and say it wasn’t a bit of a relief when my situation changed, but I entered our marriage in good faith. I loved you. Not as much as you deserve, but I loved you.”

“You did?” Her voice was tremulous.

“Of course I did,” John said firmly.

“But you missed him so much,” she whispered.

“Yes,” John agreed, feeling the weight of recent events. He closed his eyes briefly. “I didn’t understand how much he meant to me. Not then. Now I do—I don’t think—I can’t live without him. Please don’t punish me for that.”

Mary was silent. She turned to the window next to her, tears flowing.

“You talked about all the things you were doing to try and clear his name, and you told me about the work you did together,” she said. “I could see there was something…but you told me he was just a mate; a colleague.”

John swallowed against the pain. Denial. Again. “I know. And I’m sorry. If I had sorted myself out sooner, none of this would have happened.”

“I felt so…shut out. I was lonely,” Mary continued softly. “If you really thought he was dead, you should have let me help you.”

“I believed he was gone forever, but I didn’t know how to tell you how much I was—I was hurting,” John replied sadly. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

Mary dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue she had pulled from her handbag. “I’m sorry. About Mark,” she sighed. “It was stupid. And selfish. It just felt nice to have someone who was so focused on me.”

“I’m sorry,” John repeated.

There was a long pause. Mr. Hargreaves continued making notes on his iPad. All three of them were startled when John’s phone began to ring.

John fumbled in his pocket. “Sorry—thought I had it on silent…” He pulled the phone free anxiously and answered it without looking at the number. “John Watson.”

_“It’s Greg. Sherlock’s been shot. Idiot followed a suspect without waiting for backup.”_

John choked, gasping a little for air. He stood awkwardly, supporting his weight on the table with his free hand.

“John?” Mary asked. “What is it?”

“When?” John spoke into his phone, his voice cracking.

 _“Ambulance just arrived. They’re stabilizing him. Wait…”_ John could hear another voice on the line. _“They’re leaving right now. Headed to your hospital.”_

“I’m on…on my way,” John broke off, feeling a bit light-headed. He sucked in a ragged breath.

Mary stood and rounded the table. “John? Good god, you’re as white as a sheet. What’s wrong?”

“Sh—rl—ck,” John stumbled over the name. “He’s…been shot.”

Mary’s hand covered her mouth. Mr. Hargreaves stood.

“We’re done for today. Dr. Watson, please accept my best wishes for your partner’s recovery,” the man said gently. “Go on, now.”

John glanced at Mary. She nodded.

John broke for the door at a run.

______________________

“WHERE IS HE?” John was trying to maintain his composure, but he had never been so frightened in his life. This could not happen. Sherlock could not…not believing…

“John.”

John spun away from the hospital security guard who had been preventing him from pushing through the double doors. Mycroft’s voice was calm, quiet.

“Mycroft—jes—thank god you’re here—I can’t—they won’t let me through. I work here and they won’t let me through. I have to see him. Please.”

Mycroft laid a hand on John’s shoulder. “They are preparing him for surgery. They have an adequate number of physicians; I have made quite certain he is receiving the care he requires.” The man looked somewhat strained but displayed no other outward signs of upset. “You cannot be his doctor—you know that better than anyone. You are in no fit state to do anything for him right now.”

“Please, you don’t understand…last night—he thinks I don’t…I have to see him before…” John’s breathing was erratic. He lifted damp eyes to the taller man. “Please.”

Mycroft hesitated, studying John carefully. Finally he nodded. He waved his umbrella at the security guard. The large man stepped aside briskly; clearly Mycroft’s privileges had been established before John arrived. Mycroft pushed the doors wide and they hurried down the corridor.

“I was contacted as next of kin,” Mycroft said evenly as they walked. “However I have amended his intake documents to list you as his contact for all medical decisions going forward. He would want that.”

“Thank you,” John said, dazed. Medical decisions. _Oh, god_.

They approached the treatment room and John could see the number of people inside. He swallowed hard and tried to hang on. A nurse John didn’t know stepped out and nearly bumped into them.

“You can’t be in here,” she said, pushing past them. “Visitors are not allowed.”

One of the doctors stepped out of the room then, snapping her gloves off as she did. John recognized her as one of the lead A&E physicians. She spotted John immediately.

“Dr. Watson? Haven’t seen you down here for a while. You’re not on today, are you?”

“Is he conscious?”

“Wha—the GSW?” She turned and looked back over her shoulder, a little puzzled. “Well, yes. In and out. You know him?”

Mycroft intervened. “The ‘GSW’ is my brother, and Dr. Watson is his friend and colleague. We need a moment before you take him for surgery.”

“Look, I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s somewhat stable at the moment, but we don’t need anyone under foot. And you won’t get anything out of him.”

“He’s my fiancé,” John nearly shouted. He took a deep breath. “Please.”

The doctor looked surprised momentarily before her face softened in sympathy. She nodded and stepped aside.

John surged past her and made his way to the side of the gurney, swiftly taking in the fluids, blood products and oxygen already in place, the tattered remains of Sherlock’s suit and shirt on the floor, the blood everywhere. Entry wound: left shoulder. It had been packed and it looked as though the bleeding had slowed, but the injury was far too close to Sherlock’s thoracic cavity for John’s liking.

A nurse and a resident were busy monitoring Sherlock’s vitals and prepping him for the trip to the operating theatre as John bent over and reached a hand to smooth the damp, dark curls from the pale brow. The head rolled somewhat in his direction and the eyes flickered open.

“Sherlock? Love, can you hear me?” He reached down and took the man’s hand in his own. The dark head dipped once. John fingered through the soft hair while he rubbed Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. “Well, you’ve given everyone quite a scare. Always the drama queen, aren’t you?”

The eyes that were a little greyer today crinkled a little at the corners; John could tell he was smiling in spite of the mask over his face. Of course that would make him happy.

“They’re going to take you upstairs for surgery now,” John continued. “I’ll be right here waiting when you get done. I’m not going anywhere, ever. Do you understand?”

The head dipped once more, the eyes beginning to drift closed.

John choked on a sob, swallowing hard to check the tears he couldn’t yet give in to. “I love you. I love you so much. I will never be able to say it enough. Never.” He dropped his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “You are my whole world, do you know that?”

“Shift it, mate,” a gruff voice barked behind him.

John pulled back reluctantly, noting that Sherlock had drifted into unconsciousness again. The two attendants moved into position and prepared to remove the patient.

“Are you family?” one of them asked.

John nodded dumbly. The attendant held something out to him and dropped it into John’s open palm.

“They had to cut them off. Sorry”

John stared at his dog tags resting in his hand.

“Time to go.”

John relinquished Sherlock’s hand, laying it at his side with one final caress. He stepped back and watched the two men work, moving out of their path as they began to roll Sherlock away. He walked back out into the corridor, unaware of the bodies milling around him, following the gurney at a distance until it turned a corner and disappeared from view.

He continued back toward the double doors where he had come in, prepared to make his way to the waiting room. He stuffed the dog tags into his pocket, realizing suddenly that Mycroft had gone.

He was alone. And suddenly he felt very unwell indeed.

He pushed the doors wide and looked for the nearest facilities.

“John?” Lestrade rushed toward him, his coat still covered in blood. Sherlock’s blood.

Nausea rose up and John ran for the door to the public washroom, Lestrade hot on his heels.

He made it to the toilet, only just, expelling what little was in his stomach, sobbing between heaves as he braced himself on the cold porcelain.

He had no idea how long it took. He could feel a reassuring hand on his back at some point—Greg’s. Later, he could hear someone discussing him with the DI—Mycroft again?

At length, John slid sideways and collapsed against the wall, swiping at his mouth with his sleeve. He looked up at Greg, who dropped to a squat beside him.

“All right?” the man asked gently.

John nodded, uncaring that he was a mess of tears, snot and sick.

“C’mon, mate.”

He allowed Greg to help him to his feet and direct him to the sinks. He washed his hands and splashed water onto his face, scrubbing it a little. He took a mouthful from the tap, swished and spat. Paper towels appeared in front of him.

He turned to see Greg—now sans coat—holding them out to him. John took the paper and wiped his hands, nodding his thanks. Wisely, the man said nothing. They strode from the room and turned to follow the signs back to the main area of A&E.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

___________________

John was dozing, his head resting on Sherlock’s bed and one arm draped over Sherlock’s hips, when the man finally woke for good.

“Nnngh.”

John jumped as the body on the bed shifted. He sat up instantly, immediately reaching for the call button. His other hand locked around Sherlock’s—John had hardly let go of the man since they’d finally let him into Sherlock’s room in critical care.

John watched Sherlock for a moment, waiting for his eyes to open. When they did, he remembered to breathe, his entire body releasing tension he had been holding for hours.

“Hello,” he said softly, bringing the back of Sherlock’s hand to his lips.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before his gaze swept the room and, finally, himself.

“Shot,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Yes, you were,” John confirmed. “You came out of surgery eight hours ago, but you were on the table for almost four. It shouldn’t have taken as long as it did, but, as one might expect, you gave them a spot of bother.”

“Hmmm. Thirsty.”

“Course you are. Here.” John reached for the cup the nurse had left the last time Sherlock had drifted through consciousness. He held the straw for Sherlock to sip. “Just a little to start, all right?”

He knew Sherlock was studying him, though how the man could find the strength to do so when he was clearly in pain and completely conscious for the first time in more than twelve hours, John had no idea. He removed the straw and set the cup back down beside them.

“Turned out the bullet nicked your scapula. Bone fragment got loose and went on a little trip—it came very close to puncturing the lung and caused a lot of bleeding. You were very lucky.” John’s voice wavered a little. Sherlock’s eyes locked with his immediately.

“S’wrong?”

“You gave me a fright, Sherlock. I was so worried…”

“Been injured before. Was dead once.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” John sighed. “Don’t you dare make jokes about that right now.”

“Hello!” The nurse’s chipper voice bounced off the walls of the private room (courtesy of Mycroft Holmes). “So someone is awake?”

She approached the bed and stopped behind John, patting his shoulder. “How are you holding up, Dr. Watson?”

“Fine, Louise. Thanks.”

“And you,” she addressed Sherlock. “Going to stay with us for a while, are you? Well, let’s have a quick look at those numbers.”

John stood and stepped away, leaving the woman enough room to do her job. She chattered as she worked; Sherlock watched every motion then watched her face. John shook his head. At some point, perhaps in a day or so, the man would undoubtedly reveal something personal and possibly embarrassing about this woman and he would probably do it in front of others. John was a little grateful he was simply too weak at the moment.

“And I understand the doctor is going to make an honest man of you,” she said cheerfully, winking at John.

Sherlock nodded, his gaze now fixing on the doctor in question. John returned the look with a subtle nod.

“Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it,” Louise continued. “Do it in the spring, if you can. Splendid time for a wedding. I’ll have to show you my photos sometime.” She stepped back and nodded. “Everything is where it should be. How is your pain?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Can you give me a number between one and ten?”

“Twelve.”

Louise glanced at John, who nodded at Sherlock’s chart. She read down, clearly coming to the ‘recovering addict’ notation. “Ah. In that case, unless you can’t bear it, we’ll leave the morphine where it is for now.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“I think just more rest,” John replied. “Thanks.”

“See you in a bit then—oh, wait! I almost forgot. Be right back.” Louise disappeared through the door.

John returned to sit in his chair near the bed and leaned in, tucking Sherlock’s hand back between both of his own. “I’m going to marry you.”

“So she said,” Sherlock rasped.

“If you’ll still have me.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You know I’m yours, don’t you? Always,” John continued, working up to the apology he’d been aching to give. “I didn’t mean what I said at the pub. I just…panicked. It was stupid and childish. I didn’t know how to tell them about us, not then. But I have. I called Des in the morning and I told him. Everything.” John looked at the bed. “Turns out I was worried for nothing. Des said I was a fucking twat and I’d better bloody well beg you to forgive me.”

Sherlock’s hand squeezed John’s then; John looked up to see the detective was smiling, his eyes drifting closed.

“Did you think…?” John almost hated to finish the question.

“Wasn’t sure. Thought I would go to work and let you suffer alone with your sore head for a while,” Sherlock slurred a little, licking his dry lips.

John reached for the cup again and offered the detective another sip.

“But then,” Sherlock continued. “I was following the suspect and I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“That you weren’t there. With your gun. Watching my back.” Sherlock sighed and shifted a little, grimacing. John leaned in to steady him as he redistributed his weight. “Don’t know how to be me without you anymore.”

John swallowed hard. “Forgive me.”

Sherlock nodded. “Don’t care if you keep me a secret. Don’t care if you never tell anyone. Just don’t leave.”

John bent and pressed his face into Sherlock’s abdomen, his arm tightening around the man’s legs. Sherlock’s good hand dropped onto the back of his neck. John turned his head to rest his cheek on Sherlock’s hip.

“I will never leave you, love,” John assured him. “But I do care. I am not ashamed to be with you, I was ashamed of what other people’s reactions might be. Scared. Not anymore. Life is too goddamn short.”

“Here we are,” Louise called, re-entering the room carrying a large manila envelope. “That tall chap with the umbrella left it at the duty station—said to tell you Mrs. Hudson asked him to pick it up from the flat. Something about a courier delivering it yesterday. And he said there was something else inside and you would know what it was about.”

John sat back and took the manila envelope from her. He turned it over and opened it, pulling out the papers inside. He read slowly then read it again to be certain he hadn’t misunderstood.

“Sherlock,” he said softly.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you know what I’m holding here?”

“No.”

“C’mon. Take a guess; be good for you.”

Sherlock sighed again and opened his eyes. “Your solicitor’s letterhead—documents related to your divorce. Oh. Mediation yesterday. Did she…?”

“Yes, she did,” John beamed. “Mary responded to my original divorce petition. Solicitor says she’s withdrawn the other one. Once we have the paperwork back from the court it’s just waiting for a date for the decree nisi. A few weeks more for the decree absolute and…”

“We could get married in the spring.” Sherlock nodded, considering this. “I’ll be well long before then.”

John stretched up to kiss one pale cheek. “Why don’t we take your recovery one day at a time, yeah? I know what you’re facing and it isn’t easy.” John cocked his head to the side as something occurred to him. “Do you realize…?”

“Matching scars,” Sherlock murmured. “Bit excessive as declarations go.”

“Too bloody right it is,” John warned. “Don’t you ever again do anything that stupid without me.”

Sherlock looked smug. “What else?”

“Hmm? Oh, in the envelope.” John dumped it out over the bed. With a little jangle, his dog tags appeared, freshly strung on a new chain. “Ah, yes. I asked your brother if he would get these back to me ASAP.”

“On me, please.”

John picked up the ball chain and searched for the closure. He popped it open and reached up to slip one end behind Sherlock’s neck, being careful not to disturb the dressings on the left side. He pulled the chain around and snapped the two ends back together, and then straightened them on Sherlock’s bare chest.

“There,” he said with a smile. “Better now?”

Sherlock reached for John’s hand and brought it to his lips. He tucked their clasped hands against the uninjured side of his body and closed his eyes.

“Much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Christmas lunch!


	12. The Christmas lunch incident, and a very happy New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine the Christmases...
> 
> John attempts to host a family holiday meal with a recuperating detective underfoot. Sherlock is bored and cranky--whatever can the good doctor do to improve his mood?

The man lying on the mattress next to John was as still as a corpse and continued to stare straight ahead at the ceiling as John leaned in to kiss his cheek. John couldn’t suppress laughter as Sherlock kissed the air in response, neither turning nor emerging from his trance-like state.

John waited patiently, watching Sherlock’s progress through his Mind Palace as it played out across his face. He tucked up against the man’s body to enjoy the show. He loved watching Sherlock work and, frankly, he never objected to a bit of a lie-in.

Finally, after another ten minutes, Sherlock surfaced. He blinked repeatedly then glanced over at John.

“Happy Christmas,” John said brightly.

“Is it?”

“It is. Would you like to go and see what Father Christmas left in your stocking?”

Sherlock snorted, then winced.

“Did you get any sleep?” John asked softly, eyeing the dressing over Sherlock’s shoulder wound.

“I slept enough in hospital to do me until May Day.”

John smiled. “Would you rather I brought the presents up here or would you like to come down to the sitting room?” John paused, hoping for the latter before adding some incentive. “Mrs. Hudson left us some lovely gingerbread men—I could make coffee and we could have biscuits for breakfast.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Biscuits.”

“Yup.”

“For breakfast.”

“Correct.”

“No wholemeal bread or Weetabix or scrambled bloody egg white?”

John smirked—Sherlock was not a fan of his recent cholesterol modification scheme. He smoothed a hand over his lover’s chest. “It’s a holiday.”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose I could be persuaded to sit by the fire. For a bit.”

John kissed him again and rolled to throw his legs over the edge of the mattress. He reached for the robe hanging on the hook near the door and pulled it on over his pyjama bottoms. “I’ll get you settled downstairs, do the fire and then put the kettle on. Oh, and I’ll, uhm, sort your morning tablets.” He rounded the bed frame and tossed the covers back.

“Still?” Sherlock began to sit up; John quickly added his arm behind the man’s mid-back to try and ease the strain on his upper body.

“Don’t start up again. You know you have another week of antibiotics. And I know you’re still in pain.”

“Obviously. But this prescription is hardly ideal.” Sherlock grunted with the exertion and stopped. John held him there, letting him catch his breath. Sherlock carefully rotated and planted his feet on the floor. “This is unpleasant.”

“I know, love,” John agreed. “You’re doing really well and you’ve only been home ten days. Changing position like this is one of the most difficult things, but the physiotherapy will help.”

Sherlock huffed and allowed his weight to shift forward onto his fiancé’s waiting sturdy frame as he pulled himself up onto his feet. He straightened cautiously. “Oh, god. That’s better.”

John stroked the man’s belly fondly. “I know the tablets aren’t the best option, but given your history…” John pursed his lips. They’d weaned Sherlock off the morphine in hospital as soon as possible. After a course of Toradol they’d resorted to NSAIDs, but it was an imperfect solution. “Let’s get some food into you and then you can take your meds. After that, you can wear a path into the carpet, same as yesterday.” He placed an arm around the man’s waist and led him to the door.

“I’m perfectly all right to _walk_ , John,” Sherlock griped. “I’ve been up and down the stairs on my own several times.”

“I’m aware.” John smiled to himself. He kissed the man’s good shoulder. “Just taking advantage of every opportunity to wrap my arms around you.”

 ___________________

John fussed in the kitchen; happily whistling along with the Christmas carols he’d turned up on the radio. He was feeling more than a little pleased with himself.

He knew his cooking skills were not, perhaps, quite up to turkey and trimmings. Fortunately, he could manage the basics and Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to guide him through the more complex details of a traditional holiday feast. The lovely woman had helped him with the shopping, prepared some items for him ahead of time and talked him through the cooking on the day.

And so, after the opening of gifts and a few biscuits—which Sherlock devoured with childlike abandon—John had retreated to the kitchen to get lunch underway. The small turkey their landlady had helped him procure and prepare was in the oven. The potatoes for the roasties had been parboiled and, along with the dressing, were ready to go in when the turkey came out. The pudding Mrs. H had made for them was waiting to be reheated in the steamer when needed.

The only outstanding item was the sprouts. John was trimming the bottoms as instructed (though not making the criss-crosses he’d always seen his mum do; apparently Gordon Ramsey advised against this) and bouncing them loudly into the pan.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had taken John at his word. After attacking his gifts from John (two new Hugo Boss shirts; an antique, leather-bound edition of Newton’s _The Principia: Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy_ ; and a very expensive French press coffee maker, which they had quickly put to use), and feigning nonchalance as John opened the gifts Sherlock had long pretended he had not bought for him (three new cashmere jumpers; Dr. Who series 1-6 on blu-ray; and a dozen pairs of red Calvin Klein Modern Classic microfibre trunk pants, which John suspected were more for Sherlock’s benefit than his own), the man had returned to his notes from the previous day and proceeded to pace the room for the better part of two hours.

There was a roar from his general direction just as Bing Crosby began dreaming of a White Christmas. John looked up from the sprouts in time to see Sherlock pausing mid-stride to ruffle his free hand violently through his dark curls before he reached for the straps of the sling binding his injured arm against his chest.

“Sherlock, if you try to take that sling off again today, I will staple it to you,” John said calmly.

Sherlock’s look was venomous. He stomped to the desk and fidgeted with the violin bow before throwing it across the room and spinning toward the window. “Could you _please_ turn off that infernal racket?!”

John had already reached for the volume control on the small radio on the shelf beside him. “I know this is frustrating, but—”

“You don’t understand! How could you?! GOD!!! To be able to see so much and yet to know the one final element that will draw all previous deductions into an ordered conclusion is just beyond…” He growled and pounded his fist on the window frame. The thump was followed by a hiss of pain.

“Take it easy. If this case is bothering you so much, don’t do it.”

“BORED! I am bored, John! I cannot continue cooped up in the flat if I don’t have something to do. I have done absolutely nothing in…for god’s sake, I’ve been idle for nearly a month!!”

“It’s been three weeks and three days,” John replied evenly, setting his paring knife down to cross the room. “And I would hardly call uncovering the theft and black market sales of the hospital’s medical equipment by the lad who attended you in your push chair being idle. Greg’s been here three times since you got home. Now Interpol is calling. Trust me, love: if I could shut down that lovely brain of yours to give your body a chance to heal itself, I would. Just for a little while. But I know I can’t, so we’ll do the best we can. Which does include you resting for at least another two to three weeks.” John stood just behind him. “Did you find anything in the Palace this morning? I’ve been over the post-mortem reports, but I could go through them again. Maybe I’ve missed something.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No—it’s not…I just…”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed, letting his chin drop to his chest. “I’m stuck.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Oh, right.”

The taller man turned to face him, his eyes wary. “I am ‘wound up’, as you have so eloquently put it.”

John bit his cheek to keep from smiling. Sherlock was frustrated, in the most carnal sense of the word. Wouldn’t do to look smug. “I see. So—”

“I need you.” Sherlock said shortly. His face softened slightly and he grasped John’s hand.

John wasn’t generally given to effusions of wilting sentiment (he was still _Captain John Watson_ , for god’s sake), but Sherlock did—quite frequently—make him feel a bit weak at the knees.

And his Sherlock needed him.

His high-strung detective was not often in this situation, where deprivation or over-stimulation had him tied up in knots to the point that he simply could not see the answers he needed. Fortunately, their first night together had been very instructive. As Sherlock himself had conceded: sexual activity under the right circumstances could produce clarity.

John suspected it was simply a matter of the oxytocin allowing the man to relax long enough for his ‘hard drive’ to ‘reboot’. Regardless, now that Sherlock’s libido had been thoroughly reawakened, John was more than happy to have their relationship act as a substitute for whatever legal or illegal mind-altering substances Sherlock might have been tempted to employ otherwise.

John ran one hand up and over Sherlock’s chest as the other pursued another, much lower, target. “What do you need?”

“John…”

John smiled. “Tell me what you need, love.” His fingers located Sherlock’s cock through the fabric of his pyjama bottoms and grazed over the surface.

Sherlock exhaled with his mouth in a wide ‘O’. “I need your mouth on my cock; your fingers inside…mmmmmmeeee. Oh, John. Make me come. Please. Please.”

This last, whispered, sent the blood rushing to John’s prick. “I like it when you beg.”

“I don’t—” Sherlock swallowed hard as John’s fingers continued to tease him through his jimjams. He whimpered. Just a little. “I never beg.”

John leaned in. “Yes, you do.” He stretched up to claim his lover’s mouth, tongue first. He stroked inside, relishing the heat and residual taste of coffee and ginger as he teased. He pulled away with a little moan. “Feels like it’s been months not weeks.” He dropped a kiss on the vee of flesh exposed by the gaping neckline of Sherlock’s dressing gown. He tugged at the tie until the garment fell open. “But I don’t want to hurt you, so we’ll have to be very careful.”

Sherlock nodded, licking his lips. “Careful. Yes. Good.”

John gently leaned Sherlock up against the window, careful to avoid putting pressure on his arm and shoulder. He slid his hands under the dressing gown and quickly despatched the drawstring on Sherlock’s pyjamas, tugging until the thin cotton slipped away and slumped to puddle on the floor. John slid both hands over his lover’s hips to curl around and cup the firm, pert bottom.

Sherlock groaned as his hardening cock was pulled tightly against John’s body.

“Spread your feet, love,” John instructed softly. “Open up for me.”

Sherlock stepped out of the fabric at his feet and widened his stance, lowering his pelvis to line up more conveniently with John’s.

“Now, love, I need you to promise to be very, very still,” John admonished.

Sherlock frowned. “I can’t—no.”

John leaned in to nibble at the elegant arch of the man’s neck. “Very still,” he repeated. “Just relax, love. Let me do the work.” He shifted against the spot where the hardening ridge of Sherlock’s erection was now nestled against his own, letting his body stroke his lover’s sensitive flesh.

“Want to...kiss you,” Sherlock panted.

“Oh, yes,” John agreed. “That you most certainly must do.” He glanced up; Sherlock followed his gaze to the mistletoe John had pinned in place on the bottom edge of the valance above the window the previous day. He’d planned to save it for after Christmas lunch, but never mind.

“Very devious, Dr. Watson.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I do have my moments.”

Sherlock inclined his head and opened his mouth over John’s. John allowed Sherlock to taste him, concentrating on kneading the plump, naked arse in his hands. He angled his pelvis for maximum contact, offering friction for them both as Sherlock teased his tongue.

John slipped his fingers into Sherlock’s warm cleft and pressed firmly against the tight pucker. Sherlock moaned into his mouth. John allowed his fingertips to swirl over the tender flesh, teasing but not dipping inside. Sherlock let John’s mouth wander over his cheek as he sighed and let his head fall back, eyes closed. He wiggled his bottom against John’s teasing digits, rolling back to invite their entrance.

“No,” John said firmly, stilling the man’s body. “No moving. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

“I need your fingers. Please.”

“Course, love.”

John busied himself with sucking on the tender spot below Sherlock’s ear, a spot he felt certain would be a truly satisfying shade of purple tomorrow. He continued to press himself into the uninjured side of Sherlock’s body, popping two fingertips in and out of Sherlock’s hole as he did.

The man shivered against him, his hand now clutching desperately at John’s bicep. “More.”

“Lube,” John muttered, beginning to pull back. “Be right back.”

“NO!” Sherlock clung to him. “Don’t. Here.”

John’s hand was guided from Sherlock’s lovely bottom to the filing cabinet by the window and a suspicious-looking fake potted plant Mrs. H had recently become very fond of. John dug into the strange black pot and encountered a small tube of the required liquid.

“You’re stashing it in plants now?” he teased.

Sherlock’s grin was lopsided and brief—he pressed his cock hard into John’s and shuddered. “Hurry.”

John kissed the lovely mouth with a wry grin. He wasted no more time, swiftly dropping to his knees before his lover. He kissed the flat belly, dragged his tongue over the sharp definition of Sherlock’s iliac crest and nuzzled down into the musky space between thigh and groin. Sherlock’s fingers quickly wound into the strands of his hair.

“ _John_.”

John popped the cap on the lube and quickly dispensed it into his right hand. He slicked his fingers and slid them over Sherlock’s perineum and back around into the spot they had just been. Sherlock moaned as John slid one finger inside him. John watched his lover, curling the finger and stroking over the man’s prostate.

Sherlock exhaled, starting to arch into the sensation but freezing as his eyes met John’s. “I need, I need…”

John nodded. “Yes.” He pressed the thumb of the same hand into Sherlock’s perineum, rubbing in circles externally in concert with the massage of the finger within. Sherlock’s thighs began to quiver.

“John, John, god, yes…”

John wrapped his left hand around the base of Sherlock’s shaft and drew the stiffening cock to his mouth. He slipped the glans between his lips and suckled, flicking at the underside with his tongue.

The fingers threaded into his hair clenched. John withdrew the finger in Sherlock’s arse and twisted it back in as he slowly slid his mouth over the length of his lover’s shaft. Deeper, deeper, deeper, until…

“OH! Oh, god. JOHN!”

John tried hard to concentrate on his accomplishment as Sherlock struggled to stay still: he had finally managed to conquer his gag reflex. He swallowed around the thickness filling his throat, focusing on staying relaxed. He felt gentle fingers sliding from his hair to sweep down and over the side of his face to come to rest against the side of his throat.

“There. I’m there,” Sherlock marvelled in a pained whisper.

John slid off swiftly and took a deep breath. He continued to massage Sherlock from within and without as he began a steady pace on his cock. He enjoyed the strange hollowness of the room now devoid of Christmas carols (perhaps that was for the best) or any other noise save for that of saliva over heated flesh and lubricated digits in tight spaces.

John worked his tongue diligently over Sherlock’s now rock-hard prick. He slid off and nibbled down the side of the shaft to suckle on his scrotum, choosing that moment to introduce a second finger into Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock moaned. His fingers dug back into John’s hair, stroking now. The lean body began to flag on wobbly legs; John braced his lover’s weight against his own body as he pulled Sherlock’s cock back down his throat.

“My dear…”

John drew off the now-glistening cock and teased the slit with the tip of his tongue. He pumped his fingers in and out of the man’s slick passage. “Come in my mouth, love. Don’t hold on.”

Sherlock moaned again as John sucked him back in. John could feel the body tightening around him as Sherlock’s orgasm approached.

“JOHN!!”

Sherlock went rigid as his cock pulsed down John’s throat. John swallowed as Sherlock clenched around his invading fingers. He eased away from the prostate, but continued to stroke in and out as Sherlock climaxed.

“John, my John, my dear…” Sherlock muttered as his body began to sag.

John continued to suckle ever so gently on the slowly softening cock but slid his fingers from Sherlock’s arse. He dropped his lubricated hand inside his own pyjamas, pulling his aching cock free as he began to fuck his fist.

He groaned as Sherlock murmured words of encouragement and stroked his head. Moments later, his own release was streaking the carpet at their feet.

John let Sherlock slip from his mouth with a pop. He sucked air into his lungs as he rested his brow against Sherlock’s thigh, the long fingers still carding through his hair. He glanced down at his sticky hand and the (new) spot on the carpet and tugged the edge of his robe over to dab at the mess.

“Don’t think that will do it.”

“Probably not,” John agreed, too satiated to care. He nuzzled into Sherlock’s body as he tried to help the man step back into his pyjamas. He tested his legs to stand; drawing Sherlock’s jimjams back up as he did. He tightened the drawstring back in place around narrow hips then lifted the edge of the man’s dressing gown to check for any sign of re-opened sutures. “You all right?”

“Perfectly.” Sherlock’s cheeks were tinged pink, but his eyes were now bright.

John grinned at him. “You know how they did it, don’t you?”

Sherlock kissed the end of John’s nose before pressing himself away from the now somewhat-steamy window.

John let him go, tucking himself back in. “Snowing,” he said randomly, looking out over Baker Street.

Sherlock was humming as he pulled out John’s laptop and seated himself in his own chair.

John rubbed his tummy and stretched. He glanced at the clock in the kitchen. “Oh. Wow. Uh, Sherlock? Look try and keep that to twenty minutes, yeah? We’ve got a lot to do. I need to tidy the flat and—” He glanced back behind him where they had just been standing. “Well, now I have to spot clean the carpet as well. Plus I have to lay the table. And we both need to get cleaned up.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in John’s direction.

John shook his head as he made his way back to the kitchen to finish the sprouts. “ _You_ can clear away some of this giftwrap mess. How did you manage to get it _everywhere_?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, not looking up. John pulled the new, folded blanket from his own chair. He reached down and lifted the laptop off the man’s knees and balanced it on the chair arm. Sherlock did not stop his one-handed typing as John draped the fleece over his lap, making sure it covered his bare feet.

John set the laptop back in place and kissed the tousled curls. “Twenty minutes!”

_________________________

Ninety minutes later, the flat was tidy, the turkey was resting on the counter while the roasties and dressing finished in the oven and Sherlock was washed and dressed in his new silver-blue Boss shirt, with his sling in place overtop, and a pair of charcoal trousers.

John thought there really ought to be bonus points for deducing that Sherlock would want to wear one of his new shirts immediately—he’d ensured they were both washed and pressed before wrapping.

The detective was back in his chair, slumped down to his right to avoid putting pressure on his injured shoulder. He dropped his head back onto the soft leather. “Is this really necessary?”

“Are you going to ask me that every ten minutes until they arrive?”

“Possibly.”

“Answer’s still going to be yes.”

The man’s delight in solving the Interpol case had been short-lived. John had insisted on Sherlock’s very limited assistance during the clearing up (purely on principle) and then dragged him into the bath and ordered him upstairs so they could both change for their company.

This reminder about the guests they were expecting had inclined the detective to become sulky and uncooperative.

Sherlock’s strop did nothing to depress John’s good mood, though. He loved the holidays. Always had. Something about the weather, and the stillness of a few days with family made him very cheerful, even if said family was fighting over the last tumbler of single malt (Harry and his dad) or arguing about military spending (John and, well, everybody, really).

This year, given what he and Sherlock had been through in the preceding three and a half months (nearly four!), the holidays had a whole new resonance.

He had not pushed when Sherlock balked at having friends ‘round for Christmas drinks (“Really, John? Is that a night you wish to relive?”), but he had insisted on a proper Christmas tree.

And he had—in spite of Sherlock’s incapacity—put his foot down with regard to Christmas lunch.

“This is a terrible idea,” Sherlock’s voice drifted in.

“Yes, you’ve said. Many times,” John responded cheerfully. “Maybe it is, but it’s something we have to do.”

“ _Why_?” Sherlock whined. “You and Harry are speaking, but you don’t really get on. I don’t even _like_ Mycroft.”

“They are the only family we’ve got, Sherlock. It’s important.”

“But I thought you didn’t trust my idiot brother.”

“I’ve told you: I _was_ very angry with him until he informed me that he’d been doing exactly what you asked him to do—against his better judgment! He tried to warn you about giving Moriarty that kind of information, but you just wouldn’t listen.” John added some ice to the non-alcoholic punch. “He’s proven to me that he does have your best interests at heart, after a fashion. So now it’s time for you two to put on your big boy trousers and start getting along. At least for today.”

The bell rang.

“Sherlock, answer the door.”

“Mrs. Hudson!!”

“At her sister’s for the holiday. Go down and answer the door. Said you were fine with the stairs.”

There was a grunt of irritation and discomfort from the chair as the man got up, followed by the shuffle of slippered feet and the just-slightly-too-heavy footsteps of a cranky Sherlock on the stairs.

John listened for greetings or a conversation, but there were only the sounds of three people retracing Sherlock’s steps—Harry and Mycroft both must have been at the door. He stepped out of the kitchen as Sherlock entered the sitting room. The detective’s expression was disgruntled as he led their two guests into the room

“Mycroft. Harry. Lovely that you could come,” John started amiably. “Good timing, both of you arriving at the same time.”

“Oh, that wasn’t an accident,” Mycroft replied. “As the weather was so dreadful, I telephoned Harriet to offer her a lift.”

John could barely contain his shock. “Right. Okay, well, that’s just—”

“Bizarre?” Sherlock offered.

“Great.” John glared at his fiancé, before reaching out to take Harry’s proffered overcoat. “Very decent of you.”

“Yes, it was,” Harry agreed with a sidelong look at Sherlock. “Mycroft is quite a gentleman.”

“One does what one can,” Mycroft demurred. “We are soon to be connected, after all.” He handed a large Harrod’s bag to John. “If I could trouble you, John. Harriet tucked her gifts inside as well.”

“Ta,” John turned to put the bag under the Christmas tree behind his chair.

“Allow me,” John heard Mycroft say, and suddenly felt Harry’s coat slipping from his hand. He looked around to see Mycroft pulling it free and adding it to his own, now carefully draped over his forearm. “I assume the closet in Sherlock’s former bedroom is still safe for coats?”

“Uh, yes, yeah, sure,” John stammered, feeling a bit puzzled as Mycroft made his way down the corridor. He turned to his sister. “So you and Mycroft…you speak on the phone often?”

“Not at all,” Harry admitted. “After we met at the Cenotaph, though, he suggested we exchange numbers. Given the way you two carry on, I agreed it was a very sensible idea.” She cast a cold look at Sherlock, who had settled back into his chair by the fire and covered himself with the blanket John had set over him earlier—he was very obviously ignoring her presence. Harry’s brow creased. “Where on earth did you get that hideous thing?” She pointed at the bright orange fleece covering Sherlock’s lap.

John pursed his lips. “It’s a long story, really.”

“That is a shock blanket,” Mycroft chimed in, striding back into the room. “A touching reminder of their first adventure together, from Detective Inspector Lestrade, I believe.”

“Do shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“A shock blanket. From an ambulance?” Harry looked appalled.

“Why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable?” John diverted his sister, waving at the table that had been pulled out into the centre of the room and carefully laid with Mrs. Hudson’s second-best china.

Harry and Mycroft took their places on the far side of the table, Mycroft gallantly pulling out Harry’s chair for her.

“How are you, then?” Harry asked, turning her attention to the detective.

“I’ve been shot, though I’m still doing better than you, apparently,” Sherlock replied coldly, allowing his gaze to rake the woman from head to toe. “Last year’s holiday dress—turned down for advancement again? And nude lip gloss. _Someone_ has given up on dating. I’m not surprised given the last woman you went out with. The one who took the earrings that matched that necklace.”

“Sherlock!” John shouted from the kitchen. He stepped into the room bearing two cups of holiday punch for their guests.

“Manners, Sherlock,” Mycroft said smoothly, taking one of the cups from John.

“He must have been delightful as a child,” Harry said sympathetically.

“Remarkably little has changed, outside of his height,” Mycroft smirked, one eyebrow raised. “My baby brother has always been quite a challenge. Fortunately, he now has John’s steadying influence.”

“Steadying?” Harry choked on her punch “My brother? You must be joking.”

“Erm…” John hesitated near the table. “Everything will be ready in just a moment.”

“We’ll be fine,” Harry assured him. “Feel free to get on with whatever you need to.”

John retreated, not quite recovered from the sight of Sherlock’s brother and his own sister getting on like old mates. As he began placing food into serving dishes, he leaned out occasionally to watch, open-mouthed, as the two sat at the table chatting amiably. He took the first two dishes in, smiling expectantly as he set them down. Neither his sister nor Mycroft acknowledged him.

“I am fond of Haydn, but I don’t think this new conductor really has a feel for it.” Harry took a sip of punch.

Mycroft’s face was uncharacteristically animated. “Agreed. He does very well with Mahler.”

Harry nodded. “What did you think of the Beethoven?”

John left the room feeling more unnerved. He entered the kitchen distracted and bent to pick up the turkey platter.

“It’s unnatural.”

John jumped at Sherlock’s voice behind him, nearly dropping the tray in his hands. He set it down hastily and spun to face the man. Sherlock had relinquished his perch near the fire and entered the kitchen on cat feet to hover just inside the sliding doors they rarely closed.

“Jes—will you—you know I hate it when you do that,” John whispered. “What are you doing hiding in here?”

“You’re hiding in here,” the taller man pointed out quietly.

“I’m doing the cooking. Get back out there and behave. You could at least try to be civil.”

“My shoulder hurts,” Sherlock suggested, entirely unconvincing.

John’s look was suitably sceptical. He checked his watch. “Fine. I’ll get you a tablet. It’s just about time anyway.” He pulled the cupboard open and retrieved the prescription, depositing one pill out onto his open palm.

Sherlock studied him, taking the tablet silently, placing it onto his tongue and swallowing it dry. John shuddered.

“You can’t understand it,” Sherlock observed. “Harry has always been relatively anti-social when not drinking and she does not have many male friends. Of course it is _my brother_ —though that raises its own question, as he tends to be patronizing and rude as a default. And no one has called her ‘Harriet’ since she was…fifteen?”

“Twelve.” John shook his head, still a little unsettled. “We just—here.” John thrust Mrs. Hudson’s gravy boat into his good hand. “Take this to the table, all right?”

More than an hour later, the assembled company sat around the table surveying the remains of the meal. While John was pleased that the food had turned out quite well, he was dismayed by the direction the conversation had taken right about the time he began carving the turkey.

With Sherlock beside him, staring at the ceiling, John was feeling very much like one of a pair of errant children sat across from their disapproving parents.

“Of course, Sherlock assumed that everyone would be staying up to observe the progress of the experiment. It hadn’t occurred to him that not only did his fellow students require sleep, the diurnal lab animals could become quite violent when deprived of rest.” Mycroft made a noise somewhere between a “hmmm” and a “heee” as he finished his story. John thought it might be chuckling, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Oh, that reminds me of John’s rabbits,” Harry joined in.

“Rabbits?” Mycroft looked intrigued.

“On that impromptu camping trip—the one he forgot to mention to our frantic mother—John and his little friends came upon an injured rabbit,” Harry chuckled. “Of course Johnny couldn’t leave the poor thing. Brought it home, not realizing…”

“Oh, dear,” Mycroft smirked.

Harry nodded. “Female. And pregnant. We had bunnies everywhere. Thought our dad was going to have a stroke.”

John looked puzzled. “Dad didn’t say anything to me. And how do you know Mum was so upset about that camping trip? We were only gone overnight.”

“Yes, John, overnight. Without telling anyone where you’d gone,” Harry replied. “You were eleven years old and you disappeared into the ether for almost 12 hours. Of course Mum was worried.”

“But it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and she knew I was with the Hammond twins. She did ground me for it, by the way,” John said defensively. “Besides, how did you get to be an expert on our mother?”

“Mum and I were that close, Johnny. You know how we were. What with Dad…well, he didn’t have much patience, and she never wanted you to feel bad when you went off half-cocked and gave her a fright, but she and I worried together. And you only got worse after Dad left.”

“I empathize,” Mycroft said softly. “I have spent many sleepless nights wondering…” He looked in Sherlock’s direction. His brother continued to regard the ceiling with fascination.

Harry nodded. “I don’t think I slept at all for the first three months Johnny was in Afghanistan.”

John started. “But you never said. Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

“You were the golden boy, John: so charming; so smart; so brave. None of us wanted to get in your way.” Harry shrugged.

John felt a pang of guilt, remembering his sister’s tears on Remembrance Sunday. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” He blanched. “This wasn’t…you didn’t…”

Harry shook her head. “No, no, no. Oh, John—with our father? No, you know you aren’t responsible for me hitting the bottle,” she said quickly. “I’m an addict and I am responsible for my own choices. Believe me: they had nothing to do with you.”

John nodded, trying to wrap his head around this side of his sister, and trying very hard not to be disturbed by this amiable side of “The Ice Man.”

“I do apologize, by the way,” Harry said to Mycroft. “For the non-alcoholic punch. In deference to me, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, no, please, don’t give it a thought. Beneficial to one’s health to abstain occasionally.”

“Beneficial to one’s waistline, certainly,” Sherlock finally piped up. He straightened and cast his gaze over the table before fixing his brother with a frosty stare. “Mycroft hardly needs the calories.”

John stifled a snicker. Harry glared at Sherlock.

“Your brother has spent a lifetime getting you out of scrapes and that’s what you have to say to him?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock replied innocently. “I have all sorts of things I could say. After all, my dear brother has been involved in any number of very naughty things himself.” He smirked, picking up the last sprout on his plate. “You should get him to tell you about Malta.” He popped the sprout into his mouth.

“Pudding!” They all looked up as John stood abruptly. “It, ah, should be ready. And so…I will just go and fetch it in. Sherlock, come help me.”

“Why?” Sherlock replied, mouth full.

“Just…come on.” John tugged at his shirtsleeve.

Mycroft sighed. Harry turned back to him.

“How do you cope?” she asked as the two men left the table.

“Oh, these days I have access to the means to keep a very watchful eye.”

“That sounds absolutely brilliant!” Harry enthused. “I don’t suppose you could let me know…”

“I don’t think it would do any harm if I were to put your mind at ease from time to time,” John heard Mycroft reply.

He reached out and grabbed a fistful of the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers to prevent the man from storming back to the table.

“Leave it.”

_________________

By six p.m., the Christmas crackers had been pulled, gifts had been opened and Harry and Mycroft had finally finished reminiscing about their wayward siblings and begun to make leaving noises. John was overjoyed.

“I’ll bring your coats.”

He disappeared in the direction of the lab, leaving Sherlock to pout on the sofa. He collected the garments and re-entered the room to see his lover looking very pained indeed.

“…not something I would normally do, however as you and I are now better acquainted, and as she asked it of me as a particular favour, I feel comfortable leaving this with you,” Mycroft was saying, pulling Harry’s chair back out for her.

“I don’t know—I’ve never had much luck with fix-ups,” Harry responded, standing. “Would it make you uncomfortable if things didn’t work out?”

John stopped beside Sherlock. “Work out with who?” he asked.

Sherlock looked up at him with a baleful expression. “Mycroft’s PA.”

“Anthea’s a lesbian?” John said, more loudly than he had intended.

Mycroft and Harry turned to stare at him. “Anthea?” Mycroft repeated, puzzled.

“That’s what she…when I first met her—” John stumbled over this, not really sure why he was so taken aback.

“I see,” Mycroft smiled knowingly. “And yes, _Jane_ is, in fact, a lesbian. She met your sister briefly during one of my visits to Sherlock in hospital. She declared herself instantly smitten—I am given to understand this sort of thing does happen.” He tugged at the sleeves of his suit. “At any rate, she requested my assistance in gaining a further introduction. I was, as you might expect, entirely reluctant. However she made it very clear that as I am not the easiest person to work for, perhaps I am overdue for some remuneration in kind. As such, I am relaying her interest to Harriet. And that shall be the end of my involvement.” He nodded reassuringly in Harry’s direction.

Harry blushed. “It is terribly flattering. And she is gorgeous…”

“I may vomit.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” his brother snapped. John handed Mycroft Harry’s coat and watched in amazement as he helped her into it before obtaining his own.

Several minutes later, having seen their guests out, John trudged back up the stairs feeling absolutely drained. He walked to the sofa and settled into his favourite corner, helping Sherlock to shift gingerly so he could rest his back against John’s chest. He buried his nose in the dark curls for a moment.

“Comfortable?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You were right.”

“Usually am. What about?”

“This was a terrible idea.”

Sherlock chuckled, leaning into the hand that was now running through his hair. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they’ll stop pestering us, now they have each other for commiseration.”

“Do you think?”

There was a pause. “No,” they said together, both laughing.

John dropped a kiss on the top of his lover’s head, feeling incredibly replete. “Overall, though, this has been a very good day.”

“Really? How so?”

“It was my first Christmas with you, like this,” John replied. “I’m actually a little sad it’s over now.”

“Not _quite_ over,” Sherlock said. “I do have one more gift.”

“Sherlock, you’ve given me so much already. It’s not necessary…”

“I realize that. It’s under the sofa; you should be able to reach it.”

John slid sideways, trying not to jar Sherlock too much as he felt around on the floor under them. His hand bumped into something and he tugged it out into the light.

“What on earth is this?” John turned the professionally wrapped package on the floor. It was square—roughly the size of an old vinyl record album—and about 12 centimetres thick.

“Open it and find out.”

John tugged at the ribbon and the fine tissue wrapping paper, revealing a picture frame. _No, not a picture frame_. It was one of the deeper frames used for mounting three-dimensional objects.

“The woman at the shop called it a ‘shadow box’,” Sherlock said. “Told me it was the best solution for this sort of display.”

John started to chuckle as he looked at his special gift: staring back at him from a background of black velvet, were the smiling faces of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.

Sherlock had painstakingly reconstructed the “I think we should fuck” mug from the broken pieces; only two small chips were missing.

“But how did you…?”

“I went through the rubbish that morning while I was waiting for you to get out of the bath. Mrs. Hudson had obviously tidied up the mess—I noticed the paper by the bin in the kitchen. Only took a moment to collect all the fragments.”

“This is ridiculously sentimental of you, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock sniffed. “Purely practical. We have a common signifier for the phrase ‘I think we should fuck’. If it’s hung in the flat, neither of us will ever have to express the thought aloud again.”

“Only you,” John chuckled, curling around Sherlock’s body and leaning in to kiss his temple. “God, I love you.”

“And I love you.”

John savoured the words, as they were spoken so rarely. To hear them at Christmas touched him more than he would have imagined possible. He allowed them to sink in for a moment before speaking again. “I will definitely take you up on that, of course, once you’re well. In fact…”

“Yes?”

“I do have something else I was planning to give you today. Not really a Christmas present, but something for both of us.”

“ _You’ve_ been to the sex shop,” Sherlock said, popping his ‘p’ with obvious delight.

“Yes.” John smiled to himself. “About a week before you got shot. But given the state of you, I think it would be best if I postponed that. At least for a little while longer.”

“Very well,” Sherlock agreed. “I look forward to it.”

**_And a very happy New Year_ **

“Oh, oh fuck, Sherlock, I can’t. No more. Please!”

“One more, my dear. You can take it. Yes, you—don’t shake your head at me.”

John moaned, writhing. His lover was propped up against the headboard of their bed, his arm free of the sling for a few hours. John had sat down in between his spread thighs, draped his own legs over top and braced his heels against the mattress. He had placed a pillow under his hips and then reclined back onto the bed.

Now, with his arse nearly in Sherlock’s lap, John was spread wide before his lover, who was actively filling him, almost to the point of pain.

Sherlock stroked over the surface of John’s hole, slightly distended by the last anal bead Sherlock had fed into it. The taller man bit his lip as he massaged John’s abused flesh. John shuddered.

“No—don’t.”

“One more, my dear. That’s all. I promise.”

John nodded, sucking air into his lungs. “Why did I do this? Why?”

“Because you knew how much I would enjoy doing this to you. Watching you take them one by one and then helping to bring you off while we pull them back out.”

John grunted as Sherlock moved his hand up to stroke his dripping cock. “Love, oh, please.”

Sherlock removed his hand after a moment. “Not too much. Not yet. Shhhh. Relax, John. Just relax.”

John whimpered, knowing what was coming. “Oh, my—fuck!” His hips arched off the bed as Sherlock pressed the last bead up against his entrance and began to ease it through. “He said these were ‘beginner’ beads!”

“Tall, chubby young man? Ginger?”

“Yes,” John groaned.

“Christopher. Hmm, I was right, then—bit of an anal abuse kink. Probably shouldn’t buy anything else from him without me, at least until you are more familiar...”

John cried out as the last bead popped home. He had done his research before going in, of course. He’d chosen the silicon beads on a continuous solid strand: safer and easier to clean. He’d explained to the lad at the shop that he was new to anal toys and wanted something appropriate. He hadn’t bothered to examine any of the other beads, but had naively taken Christopher’s recommendation. Somehow, they hadn’t looked as big as they felt.

“The last four are the biggest, of course, but you’ve managed very well,” Sherlock praised. “How do they feel inside of you?”

“I…” John writhed again at the sensation. “They go so much deeper.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock mused, stroking fingers over John’s hole. He examined John’s somewhat softened cock. “I shall need to do something about that before we continue.”

He wrapped his fist around John’s prick and began to stroke firmly. John sighed. “Oh, yes, please. So good. Like that—there. _There_.”

Sherlock stroked with a sure hand, alternating fast, firm pumps with slower, more languid drags. John was moaning loudly now; he knew the married ones next door were likely to hear. He slapped a hand over his mouth in an effort to mitigate the embarrassment.

“John! No! I want to hear you."

John reluctantly pulled the hand away. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, _jesusfuckSherlock_ ,” John groaned, his voice cracking as his hips snapped up. “I’m going to—fuck, I can’t—I don’t think I can hang on.”

Sherlock’s smile was divine as he teased his thumb over John’s slit and then back down over his fraenulum. “I could happily spend the rest of my life watching you like this,” he sighed. “With your hair all tousled and your cheeks so pink and your eyes nearly black with desire. You are the most attractive man I have ever known, John Watson.”

“Liar,” John grunted, grinning. He sucked air in between his teeth as Sherlock suddenly took hold of the ring at the end of the anal bead strand with his weak hand. He tugged them back against John’s opening, rotating them gently. “Holy bleeding Mary. I’m going to die.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock assured him softly. He continued to tug gently until the first bead began to distend the anus on its way back out.

John’s moaning deteriorated into a mindless litany of Sherlock’s name. He grunted as he felt the bead slide free. Sherlock halted the rhythm on John’s cock briefly—he grasped John’s hand (digging into his own thigh) and drew it down between his legs, pressing John’s fingers into his own perineum.

“Ohhhhhhh…”

“Good, yes?”

John was incapable of an answer as Sherlock resumed pumping John’s cock and began moving the beads again.

One by one, he tugged the beads free of John’s body, prompting his lover to massage his perineum as each was removed. John’s cock was nearly purple and leaking freely; Sherlock slowed between beads to help John hold out.

For his part, John was nearly delirious. He’d read about beads and the conflicting opinions about what or how much they made the user feel. Apparently, he was one of those who felt a very great deal indeed.

And the look on Sherlock’s face was equally stimulating—his brow furrowed over darkened eyes, biting the full lower lip as he concentrated on his task. John had finally had to look away to keep from coming too soon.

“There are five left, John,” Sherlock announced. “Are you close, my dear?”

John nodded; his body was rigid with the need to come. “Please.”

“All at once then,” Sherlock smiled. “Are you ready?” He sped up his pace on John’s cock as he pulled the last beads against John’s opening. John increased the pressure on his perineum as he felt his balls drawing up.

“Oh, fuck, oh, Sherlock, love you, love you, love you!” John’s body exploded as Sherlock swiftly pulled the last anal beads from his arse. John’s vision narrowed briefly (and if he were questioned about it, he would have to admit to seeing stars) as he rocked into the sensations. A thick white ribbon draped over Sherlock’s hand and forearm as well as John’s.

Sherlock continued to stroke his cock gently as John slowly returned to earth. He was sweating heavily, completely out of breath and physically exhausted. But oh, god, it was good.

Sherlock was sitting quietly, observing him. John grinned.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You didn’t over-exert yourself, did you?”

“I’m fine. Outside of being painfully aroused.”

John pushed up onto his elbows. “Oh, so you are. Is there anything I can do to help with that?”

“You’d bloody-well better,” Sherlock whined. “I’m so close, John.”

John disentangled his limbs and managed to rearrange himself so he was straddling his lover’s lap. He leaned up and placed a gentle kiss on the man’s pout, firmly grasping his erection as he did.

John stroked swiftly, knowing Sherlock couldn’t last long.

“Harder, harder, oh, yes, oh, god…”

Sherlock groaned as his orgasm washed over him, reaching around with his good hand to squeeze John’s arse as he came all over both of them.

John kissed him again. “Happy New Year?”

“Very happy,” Sherlock purred, burrowing his face into John’s neck. “Very, very happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title (in part) shamelessly stolen from The Vicar of Dibley, with due apologies to Richard Curtis. SO sorry for the delay, for any who have been waiting. I don't think I have said it before, but thank you so much for reading :) Lena: I hope the beads were okay! Next chapter--possessive John and a blast from the past. Dark waters ahead on the journey to the happy ending...


	13. Laying ghosts, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is caught off guard by some references to Sherlock's missing years...and by an unexpected--and unwelcome--visitor. Good thing there is some happy news to be had as well.

**_Saturday_ **

John edged the heavy box through the doorway of the Wandsworth end-of-terrace Molly had inherited from her Nan. “Where does this one go?”

Molly appeared carrying a stack of books. “Oh, up in my— _our_ room. Thanks, John.”

John nodded and made his way up the stairs. He found Greg in the first bedroom, hanging clothes in the space that had obviously been cleared for him in the wardrobe. The man grinned as John entered the room.

“Right. Where would you like it?”

“Uh, you can just set it next to the bed. I’ll sort it later,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll come back down with you and we can get that chair in. Only piece of furniture I’ve kept, so I’m glad Molly didn’t mind me bringing it.”

“I’m pretty sure she would have let you bring whatever you liked,” John chuckled.

Greg shrugged, still smiling broadly. “Maybe. She’s an amazing girl.”

John sat on the end of the double bed. “So things are…good?”

Greg hung the last pair of trousers. “Better than, yeah. I didn’t think—well, I wasn’t expecting to get a second chance at this. Certainly not with someone like Molls.”

“She’s good for you.”

“She’d be good for anyone,” Greg asserted. “She’s so…kind. And really funny. And cleverer than I am by a long chalk. I’m just an old copper—sometimes I feel like I need to carry a dictionary around to keep up.”

“Ah, now that I can relate to.”

Greg snickered. “At least Molly will never call me an idiot.”

“He means it with the deepest affection,” John replied dryly.

“Speaking of: this isn’t his sort of thing. Why did he tag along today?”

“Dunno. Just announced this morning he was coming with. I reminded him he still isn’t allowed to lift anything heavy…”

“Not that he would have anyway.”

“Well, no,” John agreed with a fond smile. “He’s been staying fairly close. Nursing his wounds from last week.”

“What’d he do?”

“Oh, he antagonized a journalist; dressed him down in front of a half dozen people in the middle of the Tate Modern,” John said wearily. “I mean, I am in full agreement with giving the press a wide berth, especially after everything we’ve been through. He gave them the big interview—you know, after the press conference—when he came back, and then things were meant to be a bit more low-key. Peace and quiet, he said. Focus on the work, he said. Stay out of the limelight, he said. Which is all well and good, except he can’t seem to figure out how to politely decline. He jumps straight to open hostility.”

“It is one of his best things.”

“He keeps banging on about how vulnerable I’ll be if his enemies find out about us.”

Greg looked thoughtful. “Doesn’t it worry you? A bit?”

“No,” John smiled wryly. “Not like I wasn’t kidnapped regularly before we started dating.”

Greg chuckled. “Fair point. So he went off on some poor journo and caught hell for it and now he’s being all clingy.”

“That’s about it, yeah. He’s promised to refer any members of the press to me in future.” John stood. “We’ll see. Anyway, sorry if he’s being a pain in the arse today.”

“Nah, you’re all right. I’m used to it by now. And I do appreciate the help, by the way,” Greg offered.

“Happy to do it. Makes a change from sitting in the flat listening to him whinge about the ‘dreary’ weather. Three weeks into the new year and he’s already bored.”

“Well, I just hope he isn’t torturing Molly. She really wanted to get the lounge done today,” Greg mused. “We’d better get that chair and I can check in on the way through.”

John followed him down the stairs, sharing a resigned look with Greg as they heard the conversation in progress.

“But why aren’t they?” Sherlock was asking in his most exasperated tone.

“I don’t…I’ve never—why do they need to be in alphabetical order?” Molly asked as they entered the room.

Molly was standing between Sherlock and the shelves containing her own movies. The box containing Greg’s sat on the floor at her feet. Sherlock had a selection of DVDs and blu-rays in each hand.

“It is efficient and sensible to organize something you use regularly,” Sherlock said slowly, as though explaining to a child. “Dust patterns and carpet wear indicate you access the items on these shelves at least three times per week—though whether that will increase or decrease with Lestrade’s continued presence remains to be seen. An alphabetical index is the most practical.”

“But—“ Molly looked from Sherlock to where Greg and John were standing near the door.

“Sometimes it’s easier just to let him have his way,” John said apologetically. “As long as it doesn’t bother you too much. If it helps, I’m quite used to having a sock index of my own now.” He paused. “And this will keep him busy for at least thirty minutes.”

Sherlock’s expression was disgusted. “I do not need to be kept busy.”

“Yeah, you do,” John teased, following Greg back out of the room.

An hour later—boxes emptied, movies alphabetised and books reordered by subject—Sherlock and John joined Molly and Greg in their dining room to enjoy Greg’s signature spag bol. Sherlock was, for once, quite enthusiastic about dinner (John had only recently come to fully appreciate the man’s fondness for spaghetti).

“So how does it feel? All settled in?” John asked amiably, passing the salad to Sherlock…who immediately started to pass it to Molly without taking any. John snatched the bowl back and deposited a mound of dark, leafy greens on his fiancé’s plate. Sherlock opened his mouth to complain, but John cut him off. “Iron, Sherlock. The blood work from your last check-up was appalling.”

“I think so,” Molly replied, smiling a little as she watched Sherlock sulking over his plate. “It’ll be so lovely having Greg here all the time. No more nights apart.” She squeezed his hand. Greg ducked in quickly to kiss her. Molly returned the buss enthusiastically. When they finally broke apart, her cheeks were quite pink.

Greg passed the spaghetti to John, clearing his throat. “The kids are coming to stay next weekend as well. Alex is pretty excited about it. Gemma is still a bit leery, being so close to her mum—and being thirteen—but she’s trying.”

“I’m going to ask her to choose how we decorate the third bedroom.” Molly added. “I’d like her to feel really at home.”

“That sounds lovely,” John replied.

“She’ll probably feel more comfortable here once her new sibling is in residence,” Sherlock muttered, carefully budging the salad to one side of his plate so it didn’t touch the pasta he was piling next to it.

There was a strange gasping noise—John turned to see Molly looking somewhat stricken. Greg’s mouth was hanging open.

“Sherlock,” John hissed.

The man glanced up, puzzled, from where he was setting the spaghetti down on the table. “Problem?”

“I’ve only just found out,” Molly whispered. “How did you—?”

“Weight gain, complexion, no wine with dinner, and the selection of new pregnancy guides on your bookshelves,” he rattled off. “Hardly needed me to deduce it.”

Greg’s eyes crinkled with mirth. He and John started to chuckle. Molly rolled her eyes and reached over to clasp Sherlock’s arm. He looked confused for a moment, but his expression changed as he regarded Molly’s eyes, bright with tears. He placed a tentative hand over hers, patting once.

John shook his head was he watched this, not entirely sure what he was seeing. “I’m sorry if we’ve ruined the surprise,” he mumbled. “Of course we won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Molly beamed. “Really. I mean we’d rather not have anyone else know until we’re a little further along…”

“Absolutely,” John agreed. He looked at her again. “You’re what—six weeks?”

“Just under.”

“Surprised you didn’t pick up on it sooner,” Sherlock interjected. “And you call yourself a doctor.”

John was about to say something very caustic when the man leaned over and kissed him soundly.

John was still appreciating the impromptu PDA more than an hour later as they sat in the lounge with their coffee. Molly was ensconced in Greg’s newly installed chair with her feet up, at his insistence, while he did the fetching and carrying.

“So you promise you’ll ring me,” Sherlock repeated. “This week.”

“If I have anything for you, yeah,” Lestrade said patiently.

“Here’s hoping the criminal classes don’t mind this cold snap,” John said cheerfully. His cup was halfway to his mouth when he heard it.

> _Ahhhhh._

His head snapped up and he regarded Sherlock. “Was that—?”

> _Ahhhhh_.

Sherlock blanched, quickly setting his cup down and fumbling for the phone in his jacket pocket. He turned it off without checking the messages and returned it, refusing to meet John’s eyes.

John continued to stare at his lover until Sherlock finally glanced up from under dark lashes.

“How?” John was sure he sounded as blind-sided as he felt. “How? Why?”

Sherlock stood abruptly. “Thank you for a lovely evening. John and I have to be going now.”

John didn’t question or argue or make excuses. He set his cup down very carefully and stood as well. He crossed the room and kissed Molly’s cheek silently. After shaking Greg’s hand, he strode from the room and collected his jacket from the hook near the front door.

Standing out on the pavement, it occurred to John that he hadn’t called for a cab. Sherlock appeared at his side, wisely saying nothing as he slipped his gloves on.

John began to walk, not waiting to see if Sherlock followed him. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he followed Eglantine Road back toward Herndon Road.

“John,” Sherlock ventured finally.

“Shut it.”

“You have to let me expl—”

“NO!” John barked. “Not talking to you.”

“You _just did_ talk to me.”

John stopped abruptly and fixed him with a deadly glare. Sherlock hesitated then huffed. He straightened his scarf. John shook his head, resuming his pace. It was silent for a few moments more, but then he heard Sherlock take a deep breath.

_Three, two, one…_

“I don’t see why you’re so upset! She was a resource. I needed as much help as possible while I was away and she owed me a favour.”

“Big bloody favour.”

“Not for…that! For saving her life!” Sherlock snapped. “She provided me with a place to hide once. In Prague. I’d managed to get myself into a dangerous situation and I was a bit the worse for wear—”

“Oh, so you needed someone to patch you up? Protect you?” John rounded on him. “That’s MY job, Sherlock! But instead of taking me, you kept that bloody number in your phone and you went to her.”

“Ohhh, GOD!” Sherlock tugged at his hair with both hands. “I couldn’t take you with me! We’ve been _through_ this!”

“Just…how did you do that, by the way?” John fumed. “Hmmm? How? This is a brand new phone. The one you had then was destroyed—I kept it. Smashed to bits. And you said you had an untraceable mobile while you were in hiding. So you have carefully transferred that viper’s number AND her fucking text alert noise TWICE and you don’t see why I might be upset?!”

Sherlock grabbed at John’s arm. “You know I didn’t love her. You know I have never loved anyone but you. WHY must this be such an issue?!”

John pointed at him, a little hoarse now. “Because she was holding your hand and tending your wounds while I was sitting _here_. Thinking you were gone forev—” John’s throat closed.  He took a deep breath. “I’m upset because she has a piece of you I know nothing about. Three years. _Three years_ I missed—christ, even Molly has a connection with you I can’t share…”

John didn’t protest as Sherlock dragged him forward and gathered him into an embrace. Strong arms pulled him against his lover’s chest. His body was rigid at first, unbending, as a hand pressed into his back and one cupped the nape of his neck.

“John.”

John released a heavy breath, his resolve crumbling as his lover’s body moulded to him. He wrapped both arms tightly around Sherlock’s waist and buried his face in the dark curls bent toward him. “I missed you. Every single day,” he whispered.

“I know,” Sherlock replied, tightening his grip.

“It kills me that I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

“I couldn’t lose you.”

John pulled back only far enough to capture his lover’s mouth with a groan. Pain, longing and anger collided as he slanted his lips over Sherlock’s again and again. The man inclined his head, flicking his tongue against the corner of John’s mouth. John allowed this sensual torture for a moment before he captured the exploring tongue and drew on it deeply. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, tugging on John’s nape for a better angle.

“OI!”

John jumped back, heart pounding. He looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the mini-cab stopped nearby.

“Either of you two call for a cab? Woman at the address said I’d find my fare somewhere along here.”

Sherlock held John’s gaze as he lifted one hand to signal to the cab driver. “Come home with me.”

“God, yes.”

_______________________________________

John absent-mindedly kneaded the firm flesh of Sherlock’s upper arm as he stared at the fire.

They’d made it only as far as the sitting room, clothing discarded haphazardly across the floor leading to the space between their chairs. They’d dissolved into a heap of tangled limbs, top to tail—mouths, cocks and hands desperately seeking contact.

The need to connect, to reaffirm, to seek comfort had been, for John, nearly overwhelming. And he’d sensed a corresponding need in his lover’s urgency.

When they were spent, and Sherlock was shivering in the circle of John’s arms, they’d decided it was time to see to the fire. Now they lay facing the flames, lightly covered by the shock blanket, John curled around Sherlock’s back and resting on one elbow as he caressed the man with his other hand.

“I can’t believe Molly and Greg are having a baby.” John marvelled. “They’ve only been dating a few months.”

“They appear to be quite compatible. And Lestrade is no longer a young man,” Sherlock remarked sleepily. “Molly has reached an age where making a decision about whether to have children is not unusual.”

“I suppose.” John bent to kiss the man’s shoulder lingeringly. As he pulled back, he admired the skin where his lips and fingers had just been. “Do you think we’ll get to be Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John?”

There was a lengthy pause. “Do you—?”

“Do I, what?”

“Do _you_ want children?” Sherlock’s voice was calm but very quiet.

“And how long have you been wondering about this?” John asked knowingly.

“Day three.”

It was John’s turn to take some time. He considered his answer carefully, wanting to be truthful without causing any undue pain or panic. “I’ll be honest,” he began. “I always assumed I would have kids someday. You know: wife, children, dog, semi-detached in the suburbs. That sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. That’s what I _assumed_ would happen. It wasn’t necessarily what I wanted.”

“But you like children. You would have liked to be a father.”

“Only if I could be a good one,” John said firmly. “There’s more to being a father than just having the kids, Sherlock. You and I both know all about that.” He paused, remembering the nights spent waiting with his mum for his dad to come home from another bender, and the night when he was sixteen that the man didn’t come home at all. “Thing is, I like getting shot at. I live with a man who leaps across London rooftops and keeps pieces of dead people in the refrigerator, and I like that, too. I spend my time with crash victims, coppers and coroners and I think that’s a good day.” John chuckled a little. “I’m not at all certain I have it in me to make the sacrifices necessary to be a good parent.”

Sherlock pressed back into John’s chest, grasping at the hand resting on his arm and tugging it around him. John dropped his chin to the man’s shoulder.

“Mary can’t have kids, did you know that?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Endometriosis,” John confirmed. “I knew going in. And I was fine with it.” His fingers sought the chain around his lover’s neck and tugged his dog tags into his palm. He tightened his arm around the man. “And I’m perfectly content for us to be just you and me. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

John traced the curve of the toned bicep with his tongue, kissed a trail over the man’s shoulder and down to nuzzle into the graceful, long neck. He sighed there, resting comfortably against Sherlock’s body as he pondered another problem.

“Why did you keep her number?” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear.

“I-I didn’t. Not this time. When I came back, Mycroft had all the data transferred from the untraceable mobile to the new iPhone. I was so focussed on getting you to forgive me...”

“I see,” John kissed an earlobe. “So what do you think she wants?”

“Does it matter?”

John considered this. “I think so.”

Sherlock wiggled free so he could turn in John’s arms. He pushed the shorter man back against the carpet, flinging the orange fleece to the side, and covered him with his own body. He hovered above John with his hands propped on either side of John’s head. “Are you certain about that?”

“No,” John sighed. “But if we don’t find out, I know it will bother you. So I think you should respond.”

“And it won’t bother you if I go to see her?”

“Not at all, because I will be going with you,” John smirked.

“Will you?” Sherlock’s brow shot up.

“Oh, you know I will,” John smiled up at him. He flicked at the dog tags now dangling between them. “I defend what’s mine.”

“Yours, hmmm?” Sherlock dropped to graze his tongue over John’s mouth.

John reached back and captured both of Sherlock’s wrists. He flipped the man in one deft movement so Sherlock was crushed beneath him, his hands pinned over his head. The man’s eyes widened, his pupils dilated. “Yes, mine,” John growled. “Problem?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly, his gaze fastened on John’s mouth.

“Am I hurting you?” He looked pointedly at Sherlock’s healing shoulder.

Sherlock shook his head again, straining against the weight pressing down into his pelvis.

John teased his lips over Sherlock’s eager open mouth. He lapped at the warm, moist flesh, gratified when Sherlock did the same. The tips of their tongues touched, stroked, parted. John repeated this motion, eliciting a needy noise from the man beneath him. He dipped to capture the full bottom lip between his teeth before finally covering the man’s mouth with his own. He plunged his tongue into his lover’s mouth, groaning as he was met with the slick friction of Sherlock’s.

John was hard again and he could feel Sherlock’s arousal pressing into his hip. He lifted off slightly to allow his cock to slip in between their bodies, too. He rolled his hips up, gliding his cock over the surface of Sherlock’s belly and grinding his pelvis against the man’s turgid prick.

Sherlock released John’s mouth with naughty smack. “Yes!” he shouted, canting his hips. “John…”

John rolled his hips again, squeezing them both in the somewhat sticky, sweat-lubricated crush of their bodies. He dragged slowly along the long line of Sherlock’s body, hesitating at the apex of the arch and shifting ever so slightly to provide extra friction for their most sensitive areas.

“Oh, _yes_.”

“Like that?” John panted, beginning to work into an easy rhythm.

Sherlock nodded, gasping a little as the head of his cock was pinned between their hips. John hesitated there for a moment, teasing with shallow thrusts. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed.

John leaned in to kiss him again, releasing his wrists to twine their fingers together instead.

They rocked together slowly at first, savouring the feel and the sound of their bodies moving in concert. Sherlock met John thrust for thrust, occasionally leaning in for a messy kiss and clenching John’s fingers in pace with the movement of their bodies.

John began to rut harder, grinding into his lover’s body. There was little sound now save the ragged breathing, groaning and grunting as they drove each other to completion.

“There!” Sherlock shouted as John’s balls rubbed over the head of his cock.

“Yes?” John repeated the motion, closing his eyes as his body cradled the smooth, firm flesh. He rocked steadily in place, his own prick massaging against his lover’s firm abdomen. “Oh, fuck. So good.”

Sherlock moaned his approval digging his fingers into John’s hands. He arched his back and thrust hard. “ _John_.”

“Oh, god, yes. Me, too, love,” John breathed. He begun to stroke harder; Sherlock answered with rolling hips. John knew he was close. “Are you…”

Sherlock shouted as he came, bucking wildly into John’s body. John’s hips stuttered as the first wave of orgasm washed over him. He added his release to Sherlock’s, painting chests and bellies and smearing into skin as they continued to press firmly into one another.

John kissed Sherlock softly, repeating the action over and over. Sherlock exhaled on a contented note, untangling his fingers from John’s so he was free to thread long fingers through tousled, sandy hair. “John,” he repeated simply.

John chuckled, teasing his lips over the very beginnings of stubble on Sherlock’s cheek. “What?”

Sherlock wrapped both legs around John’s hips. “My John.”

“Yes,” John mumbled, beginning to feel very sleepy. “So I am.”

The taller man sighed as John melted into him.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Coming back to me.”

**_Sunday afternoon_ **

Sherlock was striding confidently through the lobby of The Dorchester, but John could see the muscle working in his clenched jaw. He said nothing as they waited for the lift.

When the door closed behind them, and they were alone, he reached across and took the man’s hand. “It’ll be fine.”

“Of course it will,” Sherlock replied.

“Just try and keep her out of your head this time.”

“She was never—”

“And your pants.”

Sherlock glanced at him, but John was staring straight ahead. John heard the deep sigh and smiled.

“Taken as read.”

“Good.” John released the man’s hand as the doors slid open, allowing Sherlock to take the lead.

As they were ushered into the Harlequin Suite sitting room some minutes later, John tried hard not to gape.  For all that he had been to Buckingham Palace and become accustomed to the effortless sophistication of the Holmes boys, this level of extravagance still had the power to take his breath away.

He ogled the elegant furnishings, and spun to look out at the terrace overlooking Hyde Park. Sherlock flopped onto the cream sofa in front of the windows and braced one foot against the marble-topped coffee table. He patted the seat beside him and John obliged.

“If she comes in without clothes, I’m putting that over her,” John whispered as he sat, indicating the ermine throw that had been tossed over the gold chaise on the opposite side of the room.

“She won’t,” Sherlock said. “No point playing the same card twice.”

“If it isn’t my favourite detective and his adorable sidekick,” the throaty voice filtered in. Irene followed shortly after, entering through the dining room. She paused in the doorway to strike a pose.

Sherlock stood. John did not.

He perused the woman as she swayed toward Sherlock, noting that she didn’t seem to have aged in four years. _Damn her_. True, the dark hair had been cut to shoulder length and was now auburn. And the sleek, sophisticated dresses had been replaced by a conservative, grey suit. And her accent was strange. Still, in all other respects, she looked very much the same to John.

She extended her left hand to the detective rather than her right; obviously they were meant to take note of the very large diamond ring. Sherlock took her hand stiffly, not moving as she attempted to draw him closer.

Irene looked amused as she stepped toward him instead. She looked up at him with wide eyes, scanning his face.

“A few more lines, here and there, but still as devastating as ever,” she cooed, raising a hand to trace over his skin. Sherlock flinched. “Oh. Hands off, is it?” She glanced at John. “Is that in deference to you, doctor?”

John could feel his face heating. He clenched his fists and attempted to maintain control.

“You texted me,” Sherlock said coldly. “What do you want?”

“Straight to business,” Irene nodded. “All right.” She crossed to the chaise and sat on its edge, crossing her long legs. “My husband has disappeared.”

“Husband?!” John hadn’t been able to hold it in, but regretted the words almost as soon as they left his lips.

Irene shot him a cold look. “A girl has to eat, Dr. Watson,” she drawled. The American pronunciation and diction were still throwing John off. “My previous line of work, as you may recall, was no longer available to me.”

“You had money,” Sherlock said.

“Not enough to…well…” Irene gestured around her at the lavish hotel suite. “I’ve come to expect a certain quality of life. And as I couldn’t go back to what I do best, I had to improvise.”

“It never occurred to you to get some other kind of job?” John asked sarcastically.

“You _are_ adorable, aren’t you? So very middle-class.” Irene smirked. “As it happens, I did try one or two other things. I provided some information for a charming politician in Prague. I even went to California; consulted for a delightful young man who was making a film and needed some advice on my particular brand of adult entertainment.”

“Didn’t work out?” Sherlock said.

Irene shrugged delicate shoulders. “No security. I was looking for a long-term arrangement, and this was—by far—the most agreeable solution. Mr. Applewhite is very accommodating. And open-minded.”

“Bloody well have to be,” John muttered.

Just then a familiar figure entered the room. John stared at the woman: Irene’s assistant, and lover, probably, from four years earlier. She set a tea tray down on the coffee table and turned to leave. She reached out her hand as she passed Irene. Irene lifted her own just enough so that it grazed the other woman’s arm from elbow to wrist as she walked by.

“Isn’t that—?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, never taking his eyes from The Woman. “Kate, wasn’t it?”

Irene inclined her head. “Mr. Applewhite likes to watch.”

John closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Your husband’s disappearance?” Sherlock prompted, finally resuming his seat. “Kidnapping? Ransom? Blackmail? Life insurance fraud?”

“No idea,” Irene answered, sounding quite bored. “In truth, the only reason I’m looking for him at all is the silly man neglected to sign his will. Can’t do a thing without that.”

“What _do_ you know?” Sherlock asked irritably.

“I’ve had Kate prepare a dossier for you. I’ll have her email it to you, shall I?” Irene crossed her arms, inclining her head as she studied Sherlock.

“Wait—Applewhite?” John blurted out, suddenly remembering his Sunday Times from the previous week.

“Yes,” Irene agreed, her face impassive.

“Not Franklin Applewhite, chair of GlobalCorp Media Group?”

“The same.”

“Aren’t he and his people being investigated for mobile phone hacking?”

Irene sighed heavily, finally shifting her gaze from Sherlock to look out over Hyde Park. “Yes,” she answered, sounding infinitely bored.

“How the hell could he be missing? It would be all over the news. And the authorities would be engaged in a massive and very public manhunt.”

“I have been successful in keeping the hounds at bay, for the moment,” Irene replied. “The investigators have been told my husband is in seclusion recovering from an addiction to pain medication. They haven’t begun to push; they don’t have enough to issue a warrant.”

“Yet,” John said firmly.

“Yet,” she agreed. “And as for the news, well, we do have significant influence in that quarter.” After a moment she cast a sidelong look at Sherlock. He had been watching her carefully during her discourse with John. “This has been fun, hasn’t it? Catching up? We’ll have to do it again. Over dinner, perhaps.”

Irene stood and extended her hand—the right one, this time—to the detective. He stood as well, and John felt obligated to do the same. She clasped Sherlock’s hand between both of her own and smiled. “I look forward to working with you again, Sexy.”

Sherlock withdrew his hand without expression. As an afterthought, she offered her hand to John. “And you, too, of course, Dr. Watson. Always a pleasure.”

“Wish I could say the same,” John sniped.

Irene hummed with amusement at this. “I’ll leave you to show yourselves out.”

John moved closer to Sherlock as she left the room. “Well?” he whispered.

“We have a case, John.” He strode briskly from the room, leaving John to follow in his wake.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY!!!! I really haven't abandoned this fic. I just got sidetracked by an omegaverse story that was burning a hole in my brain. There are only three chapters left of this one (and I've already pretty much completed two of them, including the wedding), so if any of you are still reading...hang in there!!


	14. Laying ghosts, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mobile phone hacking, Hello! magazine, a very likely John Doe and Irene up to her old tricks. What more could Sherlock ask for?

**_Wednesday_ **

“Wait, wait, wait—wedding venues?” John strode down Upper Bank Street at Sherlock’s side, his mobile to his ear. “I don’t care what you and Mycroft think would be ‘lovely’. We just want to do this at the register office. Simple. Quiet. No…why are we discussing this?” John let out a huff as Harry continued on the other end of the line. “Yes, I know things have to be planned, but my divorce isn’t even final yet!”

John glanced up at the snorting noise from the man walking beside him. He chose to ignore the smirk on his fiancé’s face. “Look, I don’t think they will let you book the room until you’re ready to…oh, Jane can, can she?” John was rubbing his forehead now. “Gardenias? I don’t…Sherlock?” John held the phone away slightly as he addressed the man.

“What?”

“Gardenias?” John repeated.

“Genus of 142 species of flowering plants in the coffee family, Rubiaceae,” Sherlock replied briskly, not looking over. “Blossoms can be used as a yellow dye; fruits used in traditional Chinese medicine.”

“Great, yeah, thanks for that,” John replied blandly. “Do you like them?”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled as he turned. “Do I _like_ them?”

“Yes—just—” John shook his head. “Sod it. Harry? No fucking flowers.” He followed Sherlock into the revolving door at the building housing GlobalCorp’s offices, trying to remember to keep moving. “I don’t give a toss what people will think…Mycroft can pay for flowers for his own bloody wedding. No fucking flowers. And no art galleries, or castles, or romantic gardens or fucking boats on the fucking Thames.”

There was another long pause. John tried several times to interrupt his sister’s tirade, but realized it was pointless. He listened with half an ear as he attempted to make out where Sherlock was leading them. He looked around the chrome and glass-clad space, noting the security checkpoint and metal detectors—sparing no precautions against irate readers, he supposed. They made their way through the lobby to the security desk. John tried to focus on what Sherlock was saying while his sister continued shouting at him over the phone. He got as far as, “Sherlock Holmes, to see Andrew…”

“All right, all right,” John jumped back into his own conversation, Harry finally having taken a breath. He attempted a more moderate tone in the interest of keeping the peace. “You can do those pin-on things…on the gents’ lapels…you know, the…boutonnieres, right. You can do those. Okay?” John followed Sherlock once more, through the security gate and over to the far bank of lifts.  He watched as the taller man pressed the call button. “Whatever you and Jane decide will be fine.”

John finally hung up, his head dropping immediately. “Right. That’s it. We’re eloping.”

“Fine. Where to?”

“Don’t care. Belize.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Tropical.”

“Yeah, I think so.” The doors opened and Sherlock led John into the dark wood-panelled box. “I can tell you one thing, though, wherever it is: as long as my sister is your brother’s best mate and dating his PA, we’re staying there.” The doors closed behind them and John instinctively leaned into Sherlock’s side.

“Will there be cases in Belize?”

“I’ll find you some,” John said wearily. “I’ll fucking create them, if I have to.”

“And to think Sergeant Donovan was worried about me,” Sherlock drawled.

“Well, we both know she isn’t the best judge of character,” John replied. “And that’s DI Donovan now.”

“Is it?”

“You bloody-well know it is. You read Greg’s email about his promotion, and hers, over my shoulder yesterday.” John watched Sherlock for a moment. “Are you going to tell me what the hell we’re doing here?”

“I’m not sure we should discuss our current client while you are this sweary.”

“I’m not fucking—” John stopped. His lips quirked a little. “Go on. I promise I won’t call Irene anything untoward.”

“You start. What do we know?”

“Okay. Male, 54, Caucasian, greying dark hair and brown eyes. Missing since last Tuesday. Passport still at their apartment in Manhattan…”

“But a man of his means would have little difficulty procuring travel documents under an assumed name.”

“He has a private plane, but it didn’t leave New York until _Mrs. Applewhite_ brought it here. No one matching his description has been reported on any commercial flights, but he’s undoubtedly altered his appearance. He could be anywhere, really.”

“Yet Irene is convinced he’s here because of the last two phone calls he placed before he disappeared, to the offices of his London solicitor. I have people keeping an eye out. And?”

The doors opened and Sherlock walked on. John followed, mentally running through the emailed documents Irene had sent, as well as the reports of hacked mobile phone messages John had collected from news of the early investigation.

“I just keep going back to the mobile phone thing. He knew he was going to go down for it.”

“Probably. Although he’d already thrown three of his publishers under the bus; nothing to say he might not have got himself out of the worst of it.”

“But you still think his disappearance has something to do with it,” John surmised.

“I do,” Sherlock replied. He stopped at a set of glass doors and pulled one open, holding it for John and smiling at him as he passed. “Just not sure exactly how. But that’s what we’re here to find out.”

They approached a long Danish modern-looking reception desk emblazoned with the name of what John considered to be Britain’s most offensive rag—unfortunately, only one of many in Applewhite’s media conglomerate. It had the distinction of being the first, however, and the one publication the man had overseen personally.

“Sherlock Holmes to see Andrew Bennett.”

The young woman looked from John to Sherlock with something like horror. “Oh, but…I’m so sorry. Someone should have called you. His assistant was going through his list of appointments; she must have missed you.”

“It was a last minute thing. Arranged yesterday.”

“Oh, right. Well security should have—” the young woman hesitated. “She must have forgotten to notify them as well. I’d better call down…”

“Is he no longer available?” John asked.

“Andrew Bennett was killed last night,” the receptionist said softly. “Struck by a car. I’m terribly sorry about this. Is there someone else who could help you?”

“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock said abruptly. He took John by the elbow to steer him from the room and back out into the corridor.

“Okay, you have to tell me,” John said a bit breathlessly as they approached the lifts.

“You gave me all the dates on which the alleged hacking was supposed to have taken place.”

“Yeah…”

“Ellery Webster.”

“The actress? She’s on the list. So?” John punched the call button.

“Ms Webster filed a civil suit against this paper naming Andrew Bennett as the most likely suspect for the intrusions, having identified him from the uncanny information he provided about her in his gossip column. Bennett denied the allegations but GlobalCorp paid her an undisclosed sum to settle the suit. Very quietly,” Sherlock mused.

“And?”

“In her original complaint, Ellery Webster stated that her voicemail messages had been accessed on May 10th, 18th, 23rd, 25th and 30th,” Sherlock started. “In spite of the settlement, her name was included in the criminal investigation, however…”

“Yes?”

“In the list of alleged incidents reported from the inquiry, there is no mention whatever of Andrew Bennett. And there is no mention of any calls on May 10th.”

“An oversight?” John offered, as they boarded the lift and watched the doors close.

“Oh, I really don’t think so,” Sherlock said. “No, Bennett was a mediocre journalist at best, yet two years ago Applewhite himself appointed the man City Editor. That’s a stretch even for a publication like this.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“And Applewhite’s disappeared,” Sherlock said, pondering. “Tell me about Ellery Webster. Her career, known associates, that sort of thing.”

John sighed. “I know you think I spend too much time on ‘trivia’, but I’m not Hello! Magaz—I’m not an expert. I’ve seen one of her films. That’s it.”

“What was it about?”

“Some low-rent science fiction mess about the end of the world. Saw it overseas; it was one of the films they brought in for us,” John replied.

“Hmmm.”

“’Hmmm, that doesn’t help me,’ or “Hmmmm, that bears looking in to?”

“Why would Bennett be rewarded for keeping secret whatever he’d heard on that date? What could the conversation have contained that it was eliminated from the public record during the investigation? What about it was dangerous enough that it could drive a man like Applewhite into hidi—”

Sherlock was interrupted by a text alert noise from his phone: the opening chords of the James Bond theme.

John couldn’t help grinning. “Now that wouldn’t happen to be Molly, would it?”

“Shut up.”

“What does she say?”

“We have to go Bart’s.”

John nodded, following the man out of the lift, back through the lobby of the building and out onto the street.

An hour later, they faced their friend over a body bag.

“This one came in across town this morning. John Doe and he matches the description you sent,” she said, undoing the zip. “I had to pull some strings to get him sent here.”

“How long can Greg give us?” John asked.

“An hour. Two at the most,” Molly confirmed. She pushed the bag open. “Then he’ll need my initial I.D.”

“Who is he?” Sherlock asked, pulling out his pocket magnifier. John knew it was a rhetorical question, really.

“According to everything I can find, this is Franklin Applewhite,” Molly said. Her brow furrowed. “Thing is…”

“Yes?” Sherlock glanced up from his observation of the corpse.

“Well, the height, weight and general description all match but the face has been badly damaged,” she said. “It isn’t related to the other injuries, so that’s suspicious.” Molly gave Sherlock the “we-both-know-what’s-really-going-on-here” look. John almost giggled at the man’s raised brow—clearly Molly hadn’t forgotten Irene. “Anyway, fingerprints won’t help us due to the damage to the extremities.”

“Too long outside and things begin to nibble,” Sherlock muttered.

“So I checked his DNA. ”

“I hear a ‘but’ in there,” John remarked.

“Franklin Applewhite’s DNA was remarkably easy to track down as he’d joined a genealogy project a few years ago. Greg was able to have it sent here. And it does match. _But_ this man,” she said, indicating the body in front of them. “Appears to have suffered from malnutrition at some point during the development of his permanent teeth. The enamel hypoplasia was not severe, and treatment has made the results nearly invisible, nevertheless...”

“I take it Applewhite isn’t the sort to have suffered from malnutrition,” John said dryly.

“Franklin Applewhite was born into an extremely wealthy family—old money, for America. I suppose it _is_ possible, but it just seemed very unlikely to me,” Molly finished.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, with a firm nod in Molly’s direction. She beamed at the unexpected praise. She was about to reply when her phone went.

“Sorry, sorry,” Molly apologized, fumbling for her the mobile in her pocket. “Someone is being brought in. I have to…go.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock said, a trace of a smile crossing his lips as she passed them on her way out.

“Thanks,” John agreed with a kind smile. He waited until she was gone before addressing the Irene issue. “This really isn’t about a will is it?” John considered the body for a moment. “She would have been asked to identify the body, so obviously he wanted her to believe he was dead. Do you think—?”

“She’d never have been fooled, no,” Sherlock confirmed. “Takes one to know one…” He trailed off, clearly lost in something that had just occurred to him.

“Do we tell her about this?”

“No, not yet,” Sherlock said quickly. He began typing a text message. “Well, we’ve seen his London offices, but I think we need to see his flat, don’t you?”

“His flat? He has a flat in London? Why is Irene staying at the hotel?”

“A very good question.”

__________________

A silver Bentley pulled up outside Bart’s twenty minutes later. Sherlock didn’t wait for the driver.

“Hello, boys,” Irene greeted them from the back seat as the door opened.

“You didn’t need to come,” Sherlock said blandly, sounding remarkably unsurprised that she had.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to watch you work, Sexy.”

John waited but Sherlock merely stared at him. John sighed and slid in across the spacious back seat beside Irene. Sherlock climbed in behind him and nestled in comfortably against John’s hip. John could feel Irene watching them.

“So the good doctor finally got over his obsession with heterosexuality,” she said cheerfully as the car pulled into traffic.

“Whereabouts is this flat, then?” John asked. He knew it was virtually pointless to try and divert the conversation, but he thought he might as well give it a go.

“John is in love with me, not men in general,” Sherlock replied, maintaining eye contact with Irene.

John shook his head. As expected: no point at all. Apparently it was going to happen whether or not he liked it.

“At least as far as we know,” Sherlock continued thoughtfully. “Though, I don’t intend to give him the opportunity to explore that particular boundary.”

“Oh, so possessive. Very butch.”

“You would know.”

“Can we please talk about the case?” John asked wearily. “If I really have to be here, I would like there to be a good reason for it.”

“Does he know all your secrets; all the things that make you scream?” Irene drawled.

“You never made me scream. And John is very skilled. He is a considerate, thorough and generous lover,” Sherlock replied, brushing at non-existent lint on his sleeve. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Considerate? Well, well. That wasn’t something you seemed interested in when you were in my bed.”

“I was performing an experiment when I was in your bed.”

“And which experiment was that? How to forget you’re in love with your flatmate?” Irene smirked at Sherlock’s slightly widened eyes. “You used to give me more credit than that.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. He turned his attention out the window.

Irene focused on John. “So, how skilled are you?” she asked with wide-eyed curiosity. “Perhaps I wasted myself on the wrong man.”

“Skilled enough,” he snapped. “And not a bloody chance.”

“They called him Three-Continents Watson in the army,” Sherlock remarked, sounding almost proud.

“I see. So you were a very popular boy.” She leaned in so her lips were mere inches from John’s ear. “Know lots of tricks, do you?”

“John was very popular, yes, but not because he needs cheap theatrics. He has a great deal _more_ to offer, I can assure you,” Sherlock hinted.

“Oh, my.”

“And I’ve discovered that although John’s previous experiences—while varied and plentiful—probably would be considered mostly…vanilla…he is remarkably sensual and open to experimentation.”

“Fuck’s sake.” John looked heavenward.

Irene leaned out enough to look past the end of John’s chin. Sherlock met her stare with raised brows. “Bit like starting from scratch, though, isn’t it?” she asked with a fake pout.

“John is the best lover I have ever had,” Sherlock replied coldly. “And as he is also the last, I am delighted to know we will have a lifetime to learn from each other.”

John was torn. He was embarrassed (and a little insulted) by the discussion of his sexual prowess and could happily punch someone. Then again, Sherlock _had_ just called him the best lover he’d ever had…and as good as said forever. Perhaps that warranted a hot, wet, snog.

He curled around and grabbed the taller man by his shirtfront and drew him in. Sherlock’s lips were parted—he was about to say something, of course—so John took advantage. He opened his mouth over the perfect cupid’s bow and drove his tongue within.

Sherlock tasted of coffee and peppermint and immediately responded to the unexpected affection. He wound the fingers of one hand into John’s hair and tugged him to an angle allowing the taller man to fuck his mouth with abandon. John welcomed the intrusion with a muffled moan, happily greeting each thrust with his own tongue’s caress.

When they finally parted several minutes later, with Sherlock looking mildly befuddled, John licked his lips with glee and settled back into his seat, staring straight ahead. He could see Irene’s only slightly irritated expression in his peripheral vision.

She retreated against the door and straightened her wrap. “Isn’t love grand,” she breathed.

“Certainly is,” John agreed with a broad smile.

Soon the car was gliding to a stop in front of a posh, modern building in Knightsbridge. Sherlock jumped out and waited on the pavement for the others to join him.

Irene took the lead, moving gracefully toward a high-tech security station in the main lobby. “Good morning, Clive.”

“Good morning, ma’am,” the guard replied evenly. “A pleasure to see you again. How long will you be staying?”

“I won’t, I’m afraid. Just popping in to check on some things. I trust the decorators weren’t too much trouble?”

“Not at all, ma’am. Finished up yesterday. Nice as you please.”

“Fine,” Irene replied coolly. “Thank you.”

John puzzled over the decorators as they boarded the lift and rode to the penthouse. _Why would a man facing a criminal inquiry—or preparing to fake his own death—redecorate his flat?_

He glanced up to find Sherlock watching him with an amused expression. _Yes. Fine. Of course you know what I’m thinking._ John shook his head at the man, his eyes crinkling fondly.

“Well, here we are,” Irene announced as the doors opened into a marbled foyer.

Sherlock walked out slowly, turning as he did. John followed, trying not to be as impressed as he had been by the suite at The Dorchester. It was nearly impossible though: the Applewhite penthouse was, by far, the most luxurious, high-tech and incredibly ostentatious home he had ever seen.

“Franklin bought it on spec from developers’ plans four years ago, before we’d met, obviously. I’ve never liked the place; not really my taste.” Irene pulled off her wrap and draped it over a white leather Barcelona chair.

“Is that why you’re staying at the hotel?” John asked.

“Well, no,” Irene smirked. “You aren’t really going to pretend you didn’t hear the bit about the decorators downstairs.”

John pursed his lips, biting off a particularly colourful expletive.

“And why was that?” Sherlock called to her, examining the photos over the fireplace.

“What?”

“The decorators,” Sherlock said again. “Not your taste, so why would a man in your husband’s situation have bothered with something so trivial?”

“Franklin likes beautiful things,” Irene said blandly. “And he does spend a fair bit of time here.”

Sherlock was sweeping the large room—an open concept living/dining/kitchen area with a sweeping view of Hyde Park through floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Do you need anything?” Irene followed him as he made his way down a long corridor toward the three bedrooms, two large baths and home office.

“No,” he replied curtly. “John, check for a safe in here.” Sherlock pointed in at the office as he passed it.

“Right.”

John moved quickly, eager to complete the search as quickly as possible (Irene still set his teeth on edge, particularly now he knew Sherlock had slept with her). He checked all the walls, the floor and the cupboards for anything resembling a safe or lockbox, but after ten minutes had to admit defeat.

He allowed his gaze to drift over the desk. He knew it was unlikely to find anything useful just lying about, but there was no point in wasting the opportunity to check.

The solicitor’s letter at the top of the nearest pile caught his eye:

> _Dear Mr. Applewhite,_
> 
> _Please be advised that the requested enquiries regarding your son-in-law, Barry Kaminsky, have been completed. A report has been attached for your perusal. In short, please allow me to suggest that as the British government’s inquiry nears its apex, some intervention in this area would be advisable. We do have reason to believe Kaminsky is a threat to your defence, if not your very safety._
> 
> _Sincerely…._

John removed the letter, folded it once and tucked it into his interior jacket pocket. He stepped quietly into the hall and traced Sherlock’s path to the master bedroom. He hesitated near the door, just able to see a reflection of Sherlock and The Woman in a floor to ceiling mirror across from the door. He watched as Irene pressed her body into his fiancé, fists clenching as she ran a blood-tipped hand over his chest.

“You _know_ why I told you that,” she purred, clearly answering a question Sherlock had just asked. “You’d never have believed me if I’d told you the truth straight away.”

“I don’t believe you now,” Sherlock replied, staring directly down into the large eyes. “You want me to find your husband because you _love_ him?”

“The will is signed. And my settlement is reasonable,” she inclined her head. “But you know that, of course.”

“Of course.”

John frowned. So that’s where Sherlock had gone without him on Monday.

“Franklin was worried about the investigation. I told him I would stand by him, no matter what, but I think he panicked.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. You could speak to the firm representing him.”

“Already have. They proved less than helpful.”

“I know how this must sound,” she continued. “But people can change, Sherlock. Look at you and Jo—”

“Don’t.” Sherlock’s tone was sensual but dangerous. He’d wrapped his fingers around both her wrists and pushed her to arm’s length. “Do not compare your ‘arrangement’ to my relationship with John.”

“Is it so difficult to believe I could care for someone?”

“For Franklin Applewhite? Yes. It is.”

“I asked you to help me find him, knowing that you wouldn’t be happy to see me, because you are the very best. I was willing to sacrifice my pride for my husband’s safety,” Irene leaned in again, her voice dropping. “You will always be special, you know: the man who beat me; the man who saved my life. There’s Kate, of course: she wants me and she is my type. Franklin, though—he _needs_ me. _You_ don’t need _anyone_.”

John cleared his throat as he stepped into the room.

Sherlock turned to him immediately. “Anything?”

John shook his head. Sherlock scowled. “It has to be here somewhere.” He took long strides to the bedroom door, past John and out into the corridor. “Where is the security room?”

“White door,” Irene shouted after him. “Off the kitchen.”

Silence filled the room. Irene’s wide-eyed expression faded as she approached John. He grasped her arm as she moved to pass, his touch firm but without aggression.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Don’t mess him about again. He was a challenge and a puzzle and you just wanted to win, but you didn’t. Leave him alone.”

“Why so worried? If he really does love you, you don’t have anything to fear from me.”

“I’m not worried about him leaving me,” John snapped. “I’m afraid of him losing the man he’s become. Let. Him. Be.”

Irene reached out one slender hand to pat him on the chest. “Why don’t you run along home and make some notes on that silly little blog of yours? I’m absolutely certain we can do without you. It’s just about time to leave this to the grown-ups, don’t you think?”

“Don’t,” John said quietly, shaking his head. “Don’t make that mistake.”

“Jim was right: you’re such a faithful pet. Useful for the sorting out and the tidying up.” Irene regarded him carefully. “What mistake could I possibly make about you?”

John took a step closer. “Thinking that because I am a pleasant, unassuming doctor who defers to a genius that I am in any way predictable, safe or weak. Never assume that because I choose to play by the rules most of the time I don’t know how and when to break them. I’ve killed before. I’ve killed to _protect him_ before. You have to know I would do it again.”

“Oh, would you?” Irene scoffed.

“In a heartbeat.”

They stared at one another until Irene finally cracked. She sighed, trying to look nonplussed. “Wouldn’t do him any good if you were sent down for murder.”

“Oh, come now, _Mrs. Applewhite_ ,” John smirked. “With my future brother-in-law? Do you really think anyone would ever find your body?”

“The Ice Man wouldn’t protect you. After all, no one’s good enough for his baby brother.”

“Oh, Mycroft likes me just fine,” John assured her. “But that doesn’t matter. The point is he _despises_ _you_.” John cocked his head to the side. “He’d do it for Sherlock. Hell, he’d do it on principle.”

“JOHN!!!” Sherlock’s bellow carried through the flat. Irene jumped but John did not flinch. At length, Irene dropped her gaze and pushed past him into the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for errors, etc.! These last chapters nearly did me in :)


	15. Laying ghosts, part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene drives a wedge between the boys as Sherlock tracks down her missing husband.

**_Thursday_ **

“Quiet.”

“Didn’t say anything,” John muttered.

Sherlock glared at him from the desk where he’d been hunched over his laptop all morning.

“Fine,” John sighed, taking a sip of tea. He tried to think unobtrusively, reading through the long list of Ellery Webster’s credits. He was working through the projects released in 2010 when a film near the end of the year caught his eye. He cross-referenced and quickly decided it was worth sharing.

“Sherlock?”

“What is it,” the man growled.

“In late 2010, Ellery Webster starred in a small independent film called ‘Kismet’. Didn’t do much in terms of box office, but it did get some good critical reviews.”

“I assume you are working your way toward the pertinent information.”

“Don’t be snippy,” John admonished teasingly. “The film was financed by a small group headed by venture capitalist Hedin Arnaud. He took a producer credit on the film as well.”

“Pertinent, John!”

“I’m getting to it; keep your knickers on! Okay…Arnaud was arrested in 2009 for links to a UK-based terror cell. Now, according to IMDB…”

“To what?”

“Never mind. According to _industry news_ , Webster was hand-selected for the part by the one of the producers. She apparently signed on to the project in May 2009.” John leaned back in his chair, beginning to wonder if he might not be chasing faeries. “Maybe this is a bit of a stretch, but I don’t know, what if one of the messages on May 10 was from him?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Are you suggesting he would be telling an _actress_ that he was involved with _terrorists_?”

“All right maybe I’m being ridiculous, but…look, what if there was something there, even in the background? Something that sounded suspicious in some way and Bennett knew it might be significant—even if he wasn’t sure how. Clearly he knew he could use it to try and shore up his career by taking it all the way to Applewhite…”

“OH!”

“What is it?”

“John, wasn’t there something rather extraordinary about that May? It was a plane thing or a tube thing…”

“May 2009? Well…oh, yeah. Of course. There was that thwarted terrorist attack. Some group had planned to take out all of London’s train stations during the morning peak—oh, my god.”

The two men looked at each other.

“We need to call Mycroft,” John said. He stood and scanned the room for his phone.

“No!”

John wheeled around. “You cannot be serious!”

“It’s already done,” the man replied evenly. “Clearly Applewhite revealed the conversation to the appropriate authorities and the attack was prevented. Arnaud was apprehended, Bennett was paid for his silence…”

“The man is dead, Sherlock.”

The detective looked pensive. “Applewhite must have made a deal to avoid prosecution for the illegal mobile phone access. It might never have come out at all if not for that MP last year. Still, MI5 took pains to ensure their source for the 2009 arrests was not revealed during the inquiry…”

“And yet it would appear that _somehow_ the terrorists found out!” John shook his head. “I’m calling your brother, Sherlock. A man’s life is at stake.” He picked up his phone and started to search for Mycroft’s number. “You’ll have to call Irene and tell her—I don’t know—tell her something. She shouldn’t get in the middle of this.”

“Too late.”

John froze. “She…”

“She knows, John. She’s using me to lead them to her husband. Elementary.”

“But—how—when did you—?”

“I knew immediately that her motives for finding the man were hardly altruistic, though I didn’t believe the story about the will. Far too easy to disprove,” Sherlock closed his laptop with a snap. “I told you she planted that letter; that she told me her step-son-in-law was attempting to blackmail her husband before the hearings. That she only wanted to find her husband to ‘protect’ him.”

“No?”

Sherlock shook his head, his smile a bit wry. “Far too convenient. No, something twigged for me standing over that body in the morgue. I couldn’t help thinking about Irene’s own supposed demise and how she’s been hiding all these years in spite of my well-timed rescue. She has many enemies, John. Several of whom might be willing to grant her reprieve in exchange for something like this. It all fits.”

“Why didn’t you say?” John tried not to sound hurt. “You could have told me.”

“I needed to be certain, and now I am.” Sherlock stood abruptly, reaching for the coat that was draped over the back of his chair. “I’m going.”

“Going where?”

“To speak with Franklin Applewhite.”

“You know where he is?”

“As of eight minutes ago, yes.”

“Where?” There was a painful pause. “Where is he, Sherlock?”

“Quarr Abbey, Isle of Wight.”

“How on earth…?”

“The photo over the fireplace. Applewhite was wearing a ring with the abbey crest. Barely visible. It took some time to identify it, of course, but it wasn’t difficult to discover that an ‘anonymous’ donor funded a multi-million pound restoration connected to the abbey’s book bindery and library in 2005.”

“So the rest of your search yesterday?”

“Just being thorough, and making Irene sweat. Decorators.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they tore the place apart before putting it back together again, but Applewhite was careful not to leave any _obvious_ references to where he would be hiding.”

“You are not going to the Isle of Wight alone,” John said sombrely. “We need back up for this. You know she’ll have whoever it is following you—it will be a trap. It’s too dangerous and your shoulder is still healing. You won’t be able to protect him.”

“Most like. Perhaps she’s hoping they’ll kill me, too. Tie up all her loose ends and provide her with some closure where I’m concerned.” The taller man shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

“You really are completely daft if you think I’m going to let you walk out of here on your own.”

The two men stood toe to toe. Sherlock stared him down for a moment until it became clear John was not going to budge.

“I could make you move.”

“I’d like to see you try,” John said softly.

“Why won’t you let me see this to the end?”

“It’s too dangerous. You leave once we’ve called Mycroft. That’s my offer.”

“I am not a child.”

“Then stop acting like one,” John fumed.

“Mycroft will…don’t do this.”

“Don’t make me,” John countered. He softened, reaching out. “Be reasonable, love. You can’t face a terror cell on your own.”

Sherlock evaded John’s touch. “Why not? I’ve done it before.”

“This is different. It’ll be an ambush.”

“Do not call my brother, John.”

“Whoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice echoed in the stairwell as she approached. “I’ve just brought up some—OH!”

John didn’t see the punch coming. He’d made the critical error of allowing his attention to be drawn by their sweet, well-meaning landlady. His head struck the floor hard and then all he knew was the sound of Mrs. H calling his name as the world went black.

**_Friday morning, Isle of Wight_ **

John exited the abbey into the early morning light, his gun still safely tucked under his jumper in the waistband of his jeans and out of sight of the MI5 agents and SAS milling about.

“Is that all of them?” he asked Clarence, the tall agent waiting near the helicopter they’d arrived in.

“They have them all, sir. I’ve been ordered to remove you and Mr. Holmes from the island immediately.”

“Yeah, fine.” John rubbed his head. It still ached from where he’d hit it, and he knew he was concussed, but he had been unwilling to let Mycroft’s team go without him. Mycroft had known, of course—or rather, had just been informed. Applewhite had made contact with the CIA only hours before his disappearance, but had failed to make his scheduled extraction. They’d never learned of his wife’s treachery, only that he was in danger and had gone missing. It had taken a few days for them to make the appropriate contacts with Mycroft’s people.

Fortunately, however, John and the team had arrived at Quarr Abbey in time. Neither Sherlock nor Applewhite had been killed and none of the monks had been harmed. The SAS had cleared the buildings and secured the grounds as soon as they landed. John had rushed inside to find his fiancé grappling with a man while a frightened “monk” cowered on the floor. He had drawn his weapon but had been prevented from taking the shot by a sniper’s bullet through the window.

It had been a very near thing.

John glanced over to where Sherlock was now pacing like a caged animal near the abbey door. He was checking his phone. Of course.

“Do they have her?” he asked Clarence.

“She’s being taken into custody now,” the man confirmed.

John nodded and turned toward Sherlock. He walked slowly, knowing their disagreement was far from over and wishing he didn’t have to face the aftermath so soon.

Sherlock didn’t look up as he approached. John waited patiently for a moment or two. There was a heavy silence between them—only the beginning of the heavy price to be paid for his betrayal.

_Betrayal?_

“I had to do it,” John said defensively.

“No, you didn’t.”

“How can you—after everything she did to you last time…why did you save her life? And why are you _still_ trying to protect her?”

“Is that what you think I was doing?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“Weren’t you?”

“I—she isn’t what you think, you know.”

“Oh, isn’t she?” John sniped.

“You have always been blinded by your jealousy, because you believed I had feelings for her. And you have hated her because she hurt me, or you thought she had.”

John’s nose twitched and he looked away.

“She read law, did you know that?” Sherlock said casually. “A brilliant mind, really. Still, foolish, for all that—she allowed her heart to determine her fate. She fell in love with the wrong woman. It was through her Irene was to be acquainted with the ‘entertainments’ she became famous for.”

Of course she had a story. Everyone did. “So this woman used her up, spat her out and she felt her only option was to turn to a life of crime. Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for her?”

“She’s not a victim, John. She chose that relationship. She survived its demise. She reinvented herself. She chose, as many do, to pursue a less-than-pristine path to power and wealth so she would never, ever be anyone’s victim.”

“I don’t understand. Are you defending her now?”

“Does she require a defence?”

“She is a criminal, Sherlock,” John’s temper flared. “She tried to extort the British government for god only knows what in exchange for information that could have killed innocent people.”

Sherlock shrugged. “My brother performs similar actions with other governments every day. I think that’s why he hates her so much—reminds him too much of himself. He claims to do what he does for our collective benefit rather than his own, and apparently that makes it acceptable. Noble, even. Yet Irene is a villain. You have to admit: it is something of a double-standard.” Sherlock cocked his head. “Love is a dangerous weakness, John. Irene learned that. She confirmed it for me. I’ve tried, but—” Sherlock trailed off, his voice quiet. “That certainty helped make us, and Mycroft, what we are. How can you tolerate my brother and believe in me so faithfully yet despise her?”

“I don’t care about Irene bloody Adler. I care about you,” John pressed. “Look, other women manage to be strong and successful and independent without turning to the sex trade or blackmail or a lunatic like Moriarty. Now she’s tried to get her husband killed, and you—were you waiting to see if she would change her mind?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock admitted. “Perhaps I was enjoying the game: the tension when she realized I knew, and then plotted a countermove; the exhilaration of plotting one myself. Maybe I just wanted to see how far it would go.” He looked out at the abbey gardens. “But we’ll never know now, since you’ve decided to treat me like an errant child.”

“Sherlock…”

“I’m not a good man, John. Maybe some of my actions appear heroic in some small way, from time to time, but fundamentally I don’t care. You know that. I told you I would disappoint you; that I would fail to meet your expectations. I wanted to try to be the man you think I am, but we both knew it was unlikely. You yourself said my approach to right and wrong was a bit not good.”

“No, I didn’t…you never really listen to me, do you?” John marvelled. “You know what’s right and what’s wrong, and you do live by a moral code. You just don’t necessarily hold yourself or others to social norms you think are arbitrary.”

Sherlock raised a brow.

“No. It’s different. You are a good man and she is—she’s inside your head again. Making you doubt yourself…”

“Making me doubt you?”

John froze, mouth open. The words were like a punch to the solar plexus.

Sherlock strode away toward the helicopter without another word.

**_Sunday week_ **

John stood patiently on the tarmac, hands clasped behind his back, watching as Mycroft’s people herded Irene Adler toward him. He would speak with her briefly, just this once more: a settling of accounts.

Irene sashayed in his direction, managing to look seductive and triumphant even as she faced being transferred into the custody of the CIA agents waiting near the private plane. John recognized one of them, of course. The sour looking one with the thinning blond hair had taken a little tumble from the window at 221B once upon a time, courtesy of Sherlock.

Served the bastard right. _No one hurts Mrs. H._

Irene wrested her elbow from Clarence’s tight grip. John waited for Irene to collect herself. She met his gaze calmly, returning his cold smile.

“So,” she started.

“So?”

“I underestimated you,” Irene stated matter-of-factly. “Bravo, doctor. Or should I say ‘captain’?”

John shrugged. “Whichever you like. And I did warn you.”

Irene studied him. “So you did,” she marvelled, stroking a gloved hand over his cheek. John recoiled slightly; Irene smirked. “The warrior is well-hidden, but he is there, isn’t he?”

John crossed his arms over his chest. “I protect what’s mine.”

“Yes,” Irene said simply, withdrawing her hand. “You do.” She hesitated, scanning the hangar behind John. “Where is he?”

“Oh, he has more important things on his mind at the moment. Fresh corpse. Looks like a serial killer.”

Irene frowned. “He’s not coming? He doesn’t want to know…?”

“How you manipulated him and tried to use him? Again?” John scoffed. “You aren’t really going to pretend you think he doesn’t.” John paused. “But just between us—how did you find out about the bombing?”

“Mr. Applewhite is not terribly guarded when he is aroused. It’s just a matter of knowing…”

“What he likes,” John finished for her. “Right. So you offered to let them murder the man, and they agreed to leave you alone.”

“Murder’s a strong word,” Irene drawled. “I was doing what I had to do to survive. Sherlock would understand that.”

“He does, and he did enjoy the game,” John acknowledged with a bob of his head. “But it doesn’t change anything. In the end you were still quite happy to use him—and to get your husband killed.”

“Oh, come now…Sherlock? Worried about a man like my husband? A few months sleeping with you and he’s a boy scout?”

“Not at all,” John answered. “We both know Sherlock wouldn’t have shed any tears over Franklin Applewhite’s death. But he knows his involvement would have upset me.” John pursed his lips, hoping the lie was convincing. “I believe he’s better than that. Better than you. And I will do whatever I have to do to keep it that way.”

Irene considered this, eyeing the men Mycroft had sent. “Surely, then, Oz the Great and Powerful could have managed this bit on his own. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Me? Oh, well, I’m just the sidekick. You now, the one who does the ‘sorting out and the tidying up’,” John replied, his tone mocking. “I’m here to make sure these chaps take out the rubbish.”

Irene smirked at the insult.  She tugged the expensive leather coat more firmly around her svelte frame. “I expect it will be some time before they’re done with me.” She inclined her head in the direction of the CIA agents now headed toward them. There was a pregnant pause. “You’ll take care of him.”

“Of course,” John said curtly.

She looked pensive, but her eyes held a hint of mischief as she said, “I still wonder what he might have sounded like, if I’d been able to get him to beg.”

John smiled, genuinely but a little sadly, too. “I don’t have to wonder,” he said softly. “He begs for me all the time.”

Irene raised her hands in defeat with a wry smile. The two agents approached and led her away. John watched her departure with relief. Once she had boarded the plane and the doors were closed, Clarence returned.

“Dr. Watson? I can take you home now, if you like.”

“Cheers,” John replied. He lifted his collar against the winter wind and followed the man back to the black sedan.

“Hopefully the last we’ll see of her, sir,” Clarence offered, holding the rear door for John.

“Hopefully,” John agreed as he slid into the car.

With any luck at all, Irene Adler would never return.

John only hoped the damage she’d already done was not irreversible.


	16. If only love were enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John fears his relationship with Sherlock may be over, though his sister tells him otherwise. But love may not be enough to hold them together...

John padded down into the sitting room just as Sherlock disappeared into his lab. He watched as the door closed behind the detective, staring at it for a moment before finally making his way into the kitchen to make a quick coffee.

_So the silence continues._

John flipped the switch on the kettle. He retrieved his mug from the rack by the sink, sniffling as he spooned instant coffee granules into it. He knew he wasn’t coming down with anything but he felt tired. Achy. Cranky.

Sad.

He wasn’t coping at all well with the nearly two weeks that had passed since things had gone pear-shaped.

Ever since Irene Adler’s return, and the fallout from John’s attempt to deal with her, Sherlock had withdrawn. His behaviour—much as it had been for those few days after Remembrance Day—was distant. He rarely spoke to or touched John. He did not come to bed, preferring to kip on the sofa.

And the sex…

John thought perhaps a complete cessation might have been preferable to the brief liaisons they’d had since The Woman’s reluctant departure. While he no longer displayed any sort of casual affection, Sherlock continued to initiate physically satisfying but soul-sickening sexual encounters: there was never any kissing, and it was never at home.

The fumbling hand job in a dark alley near St. Paul’s and the hard shag in the men’s facilities at Paddington Station had left John feeling drained, defeated and dirty, but he simply didn’t have the will to stop. If it were the only connection he could get with the man he loved, he’d take it. Regardless of how much it hurt later, when he was in bed alone and staring at the ceiling.

He poured the boiling water into his mug and made his way to his chair. As he passed, he allowed his gaze to drift over the stacks on the mantle. Most of it he had made an attempt to sift through at some point; some of it he simply hadn’t had time to deal with between shifts at the hospital and…everything else. The knife had re-appeared—a pile of post from god-only-knew-when had been stuck to the wood sometime during the night or while he’d been at work the day before.

John was about to move on and sit when one of the envelopes, barely peaking out from beneath the rest of the new mess, caught his eye.

He set his mug down and detached the letters, dropping everything else in favour of the one with the court postmark. He opened it quickly and removed the documents inside. He was smiling as he read the notice confirming that his decree nisi had been granted, at least until he noted the date.

“January 3… but—”

John stared at the paperwork confirming the near-end of his divorce. It had been sitting somewhere in the flat since before Irene came back, yet Sherlock had hidden it. Or forgotten it.

Either way, it made John feel a little hollow.

He abandoned his coffee and made his way to the shower. He did not knock on the door he knew would not be answered. He didn’t send a text. He knew there was little point.

Thirty minutes later, clean and dressed, John left 221B. With no plan and no destination in mind, he himself was a little surprised when he arrived at his sister’s office nearly an hour later.

“Good morning. May I help you?” The receptionist at Gaville Harte & Mackintosh was a fresh-faced young man of about twenty. John had only been to see his sister at work once or twice before, so he was certain he wouldn’t be remembered.

“John Watson. I’d like to see my sister, Harry, if she’s free.”

“One moment, please.”

John stepped away as he made the call, glancing about at the waiting room for the venerable corporate and property law firm his sister had joined nearly twelve years previous. They had been remarkably supportive during her recovery, though it seemed her ascent to partnership might have been derailed. Still, given how Harry’s drinking had mangled everything else in her life, John was grateful she still had a career at all.

“Mr. Watson?”

John turned back to the counter to find the receptionist smiling at him.

“You can go right in. It’s the third office on the left.”

“Thank you.”

John located the office easily. He knocked on the closed door and opened it at his sister’s behest.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Harry said, moving to greet him. “What brings you?”

“I—” John struggled for words, not entirely sure he knew what he wanted or needed to say.

Harry had reached him and he turned to look down at her. The concern he saw there shook him to the core. He sat heavily in the padded leather chair in front of her desk, stunned.

“I think…I think it may be over,” he muttered weakly.

Harry’s brow creased and she leaned against the edge of the desk in front of him. “What’s happened, Johnny?” She reached out and placed her hand over his own, clasped tightly in his lap.

“I did something, something he didn’t like. He feels betrayed and—” John broke off, swallowing hard. “I think he’s done.”

“Done? Wha—has he left you?”

“No. No. I think he’s just waiting for me to go, though.” John released a ragged sigh. “I know he doesn’t want to marry me.”

“But…” Harry broke off, looking conflicted. “Has he said he wants to end your engagement?”

“Not in so many words, no. But my decree nisi was granted. Weeks ago. And the notice has just been sitting somewhere in the flat. He hid it or forgot about it—either way, it’s pretty clear he no longer cares about my divorce.”

“So you’re just going to give up?” she asked sharply. “That’s not the John Watson I know.”

“I can’t make him stay with me, Harry.”

“You are not a quitter,” she replied defiantly. “You’ve rarely, if ever, taken no for an answer before. Why would you start now?”

“It’s just…”

“You feel guilty about whatever’s happened, and you’re hurt.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Well, tough tits,” she said. Harry’s tone was stern, but her face was not unkind. “You knew this wasn’t going to be easy but you pursued it anyway. Time to soldier on.”

“Are you—are you actually fighting for Sherlock right now?”

“I’m fighting for you, you great berk.”

“He doesn’t want to marry me!”

“Of course he does,” Harry said softly.

“What?”

“He may be angry with you and clearly you are going through a bad patch, but he wants to marry you.”

“You sound very certain,” John said, suddenly suspicious.

Harry huffed, crossing her arms. “Look, this was meant to be a surprise, so you can not let on to him that I told you, all right?”

“Harriet,” John growled.

“You know that Mycroft and I have become friends,” she began. John nodded, still disturbed by the idea. “I know you don’t like it,” his sister continued perceptively, “but the truth is he and I have a fair bit in common. Not the least of which is an affection for a sibling we have never thoroughly understood nor been close to.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but she waved a hand at him. “C’mon, Johnny. We both know that you and I have had an awkward relationship since we were kids. My drinking made it much worse, of course, but we are just two very different people, in spite of our shared family traits.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Harry smiled. “It’s nice for me to be able to talk to someone who understands. Mycroft cares for Sherlock, very deeply. I know it may seem sometimes like interference or meddling, but…”

John shook his head. He was more than well aware of the instinct to protect Sherlock from himself and now he, too, was paying the price for having gone too far.

“At any rate,” Harry continued. “Mycroft and I talk. And we are trying to help plan a wedding for the brothers we love, and I happen to know that Sherlock still very much wants that to happen.”

“How?”

“He may have forgotten about the envelope, but that was only because it was no longer necessary. Right before Christmas, he asked Mycroft to intervene.”

“Intervene? How?”

“Mycroft confided to Sherlock that the government is going to get around to the same-sex marriage legislation— _finally_. It is imminent. Sherlock asked him to hasten your divorce and procure a special license so you wouldn’t have to wait.”

“Oh.” There was a long silence as John attempted to digest this new information. Finally he said, “But that was weeks ago. I’m pretty sure he’s changed his mind.”

Harry shook her head emphatically. “Mycroft spoke to him about it only a few days ago. Everything is done, John. You are divorced. The decree absolute and the special license will be delivered any day now.”

“But he—we—“ John stammered, his mind racing. “Jes—I have no idea what to do.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve quarrelled about—and, frankly, you know I am not Sherlock’s biggest fan—so take this as you will: I know he loves you, in his way. Maybe the only way he can care about anyone. Whatever else is going on, I do believe that.” Harry prompted.

John rubbed sweaty palms over his thighs as hope bloomed in his chest for the first time in a fortnight. “He still wants this; wants me?” he wondered aloud.

Harry reached out tentatively and took her brother’s hand. “I really do think so,” she replied, smiling. “I’m not sure he deserves you, but there it is. And I fully expect to be signing the register for you in a little over a month’s time.”

John stood, his smile crooked. “Harry...”

“My pleasure, brother,” she said gamely. “Maybe this can be a bit of a new beginning for you and I, too. I’ve had so many new beginnings lately, I’ve discovered that I quite enjoy them.”

“You and Jane are still dating?”

“She’s a wonderful woman, Johnny. I like her very much.”

John nodded firmly. “Good. That’s good. You should be happy.”

“So should you,” she chuckled. “So get out of my office, go home and get on with it. Sort out that madman of yours!”

John beamed as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Thanks. Really.”

“Go on,” she teased. John turned to leave and she called after him. “Oh, and I’ll have Jane ring you with your fitting time.”

John looked back, puzzled. Harry was leaning against the frame of the door to her office. She rolled her eyes. “Wedding clothes, you silly man. You need to pick out a suit for your wedding!”

John nodded, grinning.

The smile remained on his face for the duration of the return trip to 221B. He bounded up the stairs, determined to confront Sherlock about the wall between them and then proceed to break it down.

He stormed into the sitting room to find Mrs. H dusting. “Oh, hello, dear,” she said cheerfully. “If you’re looking for himself, he’s gone with Inspector Lestrade. Came to collect him about thirty minutes ago. Must have been important—Sherlock didn’t even insist on a cab.”

John’s mood dimmed slightly. He was in the process of deciding whether or not he should follow the man to the Yard when his phone buzzed with a text from Sherlock

> _Child abducted. Clock ticking NSY URGENT_

John turned to dash back down the stairs when Mrs. Hudson’s voice intruded. “Oh, wait! You should probably take a look at this before you go, dear.” She stepped away from the bookshelves to grab the large envelope that had been propped in front of the mirror on the mantle. “The courier brought it just now. Said it was very important.”

John took the envelope marked with his name and tore into it. The first page of the sheaf of documents was a note from Mycroft—of course.

> _Dear Dr. Watson,_
> 
> _Harriet intimated that I should have this delivered sooner rather than later. Please accept my best wishes._
> 
> _MH_
> 
> _P.S. These are copies, obviously; for some reason, Sherlock asked that I keep his middle name from you for as long as possible. My apologies. I will bring the originals with me on the day (Jane has reserved several possible dates for two different rooms at the Old Marylebone Town Hall. Please let her know which will suit and she will complete the arrangements)._

John glanced briefly at the final divorce decree and the special marriage license (on which Sherlock’s middle name had been stroked through with a black felt tip).

 _Marriage_. He’d called it that, of course, knowing that it would probably be a civil union instead, but there it was: marriage. He felt a little flutter of pleasure in his belly at the idea of being able to call Sherlock Holmes his husband.

 _Sherlock_. Sherlock needed him.

John dropped the papers on his chair, smiling briefly at Mrs. Hudson. “Thanks, Mrs. H!”

He ran for the door, his landlady’s voice trailing after him. “Good news, then, was it?”

“The very best!!”

______________________________

John nodded at several of the officers as he made his way between the desks outside Lestrade’s office. Three or four were on the phone; Sally Donovan was organizing the board on the far side of the room. A photo of the young boy who’d been kidnapped along with photos of family members, the ransom note and evidence from the scene were posted. A digital clock on the wall above had been set to count down: a little over three hours until the kidnapper’s deadline. John frowned as he scanned for Sherlock, finally locating the man pacing in a corner near the windows.

Sherlock looked up as he approached. “JOHN!!!”

“Shhhh!” John nearly sagged with relief at hearing Sherlock calling his name, but was a little distressed by the sharp edge to it. Something was not right. John dragged the detective further away from the officers still about, very aware of the many pairs of eyes—all belonging to members of Lestrade’s team—now watching them. He looked the man over carefully. “What are you yelling about? Tell me what’s wrong. And breathe, for god’s sake.”

“I’ve been through everything they have. There was almost nothing left by the kidnappers, but the photos were surprisingly helpful,” Sherlock began, as though he hadn’t been mostly ignoring John for days. He turned to glare at Anderson, watching them suspiciously from where he was standing with Sally. “Lestrade was late getting to the boy’s house so there was no time to call me to the crime scene. I’ve been through the messages and the one video they posted, but I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” John asked evenly. “What is it? What do you need?”

“I need _it_ , John. Now! Please.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, his hands shaking. “I can almost see it. The answer. It’s right there, but I just can’t quite…please, John!”

John glanced around, his cheeks turning pink. “Not here, Sherlock. No.”

“Please, John. The case!”

“Yes, the case. I know, but...”

“A child’s life is at stake,” Sherlock said pointedly, digging at John’s emotional pressure points. “They’ll kill him. I’m the only one who can stop it now.”

“Sherlock,” John hissed. “Are you completely mental? For crying out loud, we are in the middle of Scotland Yard!” His rather forceful whisper dwindled to a sigh as he observed the desperation in his lover’s eyes. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but what about another nicotine patch?” John had taken to carrying extras with him as a precaution.

“Wearing three already,” Sherlock’s voice had regained some of its usual calm, but he was still jittery.

“Three! Damn it, Sherlock, you—no, never mind.” John took a deep breath as he held Sherlock by his upper arms. “Look, I know sometimes _it_ helps you, but we just can’t. Not here.”

“You said anywhere, John. It’s not as though we’ve never done it in a public place before.”

“Jes—no!”

“You promised me.”

“I—I know, but…” John looked up, but fortunately most of the officers had turned to the telly to watch for any news coverage of the abduction. The boy’s wealthy and famous parents rarely avoided media scrutiny. “Try and stay calm. Try and focus.”

“If I could focus, I wouldn’t be desperate for you to fuck me, would I?” Sherlock snapped. He was attempting a whisper, but as with most things Sherlockian, it was larger than life.

John dropped his chin to his chest, silently willing the floor to open up and swallow him. And to think this was the life he wanted so badly. He really was an idiot. “I’ll think of something,” he said softly, with a quick nod. “Stay here and try not to—just stay here, yeah?”

John strode purposefully toward Lestrade’s office. He knocked sharply on the edge of the open door. Greg was on the phone, but looked up to wave John in. John stepped through and firmly closed the door behind him.

“Good, thanks.” Greg concluded the call and hung up, smiling up at John. “Well? Has he cracked it yet? I need some good news.”

“I wish I had some,” John muttered, trying not to look as mortified as he felt. “He’s hit a bit of a snag.”

“Snag? What, him?”

“He’s just a little wound up; finding it hard to see things the way he normally does.”

“This is not the time for Sherlock Holmes to have a crisis! I _need_ him. That _kid_ needs him!”

“I know, I know,” John raised his hands defensively. “I think he can work through it. He just needs somewhere quiet to, you know, visit the Mind Palace, and that.”

“Somewhere quiet.” Lestrade repeated the words suspiciously.

“Like a timeout.”

“A timeout.”

“Are you going to help me with this or are you simply going to repeat everything I say?”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “He needs a timeout. Somewhere quiet.”

“Somewhere private. Preferably with a door that locks.”

“Uh-huh,” Greg smirked. “Soundproof, too, I suppose.”

John’s cheeks flamed.

“And you’re going with him for this timeout.”

“Damn it, Greg...”

The man waved his hands. “Far be it from me to question the methods. I’m desperate.” Greg dug in his top desk drawer and tossed a key ring to John. “It’s the room we use for victims’ families; fourth door on the left. Completely private. No mirrors, no listening devices. Can’t guarantee the sound, though, so you’ll—“ John cleared his throat. “HE will just have to keep it down.”  
  
“Fine. Good.” John straightened himself and squared his shoulders.

“Do me a favour and tidy up when you’re...done.” Greg sighed and ran a hand through his silver hair. “And John?”

John looked back over his shoulder, the door open in his hand.

“Find the kid.”

John nodded. He walked back to where Sherlock was pacing, fingers steepled in front of his face. John approached, brushing a hand over the taller man’s hip as he passed, and continued down the corridor. Sherlock was so close behind him John could feel the breath on his neck.

He marched, trying to look nonchalant as they passed Donovan’s desk. She was perched on the corner, facing the telly, but glanced at them as they passed.

_Shit._

He found the fourth door and unlocked it, a little surprised by the tremor in his hand. The door open, he found a switch for the lights and stepped inside.

John had barely stepped in to the room when he heard the door slam and lock, and found himself thrown up against the wall.

He expected force, a near assault, given Sherlock’s state. Instead, a soft, open mouth grazed over his—gentle, seductive and inviting. Two hands burrowed into his hair; they nudged, tugged and held him captive for the tender onslaught. Rosebud lips teased, coaxing him to let his lover in.

He did. Long, long days of loneliness and yearning flooded his system and John broke down immediately. He clung to Sherlock, helpless.

John hadn’t been aroused initially. Nothing like it. He’d been too unnerved and self-conscious for his body to register desire. As always, though, the heat of Sherlock’s intense need for him triggered a response that quickly ignited his entire body.

“Please, John,” Sherlock growled, his tongue lapping at John’s mouth. He took John’s hand and laid it over the bulge in his trousers. He was so incredibly hard.

John cupped him, stroking gently. “I’ll fix it, love.”

He opened his mouth over Sherlock’s and thrust his tongue within, eliciting a helpless whimper from the taller man. Sherlock curled into him, allowing John to grasp him firmly by his coat lapels. He pushed them away from the wall and backed Sherlock toward the centre of the room until Sherlock’s thighs bumped into the table there. John continued his uninhibited plundering of Sherlock’s mouth as he attempted to focus on practical matters.

“Coat off,” he panted.

“Mmmm...no, please.”

“Fine,” John grunted. He sucked on the tongue that ventured between his lips, his hand moving to deal with the button and zip on Sherlock’s expensive black trousers. He tugged them open and slid his hand inside, curling around the man’s throbbing prick.

John jumped as Sherlock released a long, loud groan. He slapped his free hand over the beautiful mouth. “Quiet,” he hissed.

Sherlock’s eyes were heavy lidded; he met John’s fierce gaze and nodded his understanding. John slowly removed his hand, continuing to stroke Sherlock’s cock with the other. Sherlock clamped his mouth tight as John lowered himself to his knees.

He worked Sherlock’s clothing down halfway then slid his hands up the back of the muscular thighs and over the firm, round arse. He nudged Sherlock back until he was perched on the edge of the table. John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes as he leaned in and captured the head of his cock between his lips.

Sherlock inhaled a stuttering breath as John’s tongue swirled around his sensitive flesh. John sucked hard as he allowed the length to slide deeper, deeper, deeper until his nose was buried in Sherlock’s pubic hair. He closed his eyes then, relishing the familiar scent and taste of his lover.

John swallowed around the flesh filling his throat; Sherlock’s fingertips dug into his scalp. He pulled off slowly, teasing as he went and taking the time to flick at the glans as it popped between his lips. He looked up again—Sherlock’s head was thrown back, eyes closed. John smiled with satisfaction as he suckled, licked and stroked the man’s cock before drawing it deep once more. He sucked hard, bobbing against Sherlock’s body until there was a tug at his hair.

“Now,” Sherlock whispered. “Please.”

John pulled back and stood taking one last opportunity to kiss the mouth he’d been missing before turning Sherlock around to face the table. He reached into the pocket of Sherlock’s coat and retrieved the lube he knew would be there. He pressed a hand into the centre of the man’s back to ease him over and flipped the tails of the coat up and out of the way. He smoothed a hand over his lover’s bottom.

He pressed in to Sherlock’s back. “You are so beautiful,” John whispered. “So perfect.” He squeezed lube into his hand and quickly coated his fingers.

Sherlock shuddered as John’s finger penetrated him. He dropped heavily, face down, onto the table, his hands splayed on either side of his head.

John prepared Sherlock as quickly as possible—there was no time to waste. Within minutes, Sherlock’s hole was open and glistening. John hurriedly opened his trousers. He pulled his cock free, slicked it swiftly and buried himself.

Sherlock had stuffed most of his hand into his mouth to stifle the sounds he was struggling not to make, but John could feel the vibrations against his chest as he leaned into each thrust. Sherlock pushed back into his body, tightening ruthlessly around the invading cock. John exhaled softly with pleasure, slamming home at exactly the right angle. The long, lean body jerked convulsively beneath him as he hit Sherlock’s prostate again and again.

He fucked Sherlock hard; they did not have the luxury of skill that would extend their time together. It was not long before Sherlock began to pant. The hand at his mouth disappeared beneath him; John pulled the lean hips back from the table slightly, making just enough room for the man to stroke his cock.

“Come on, love,” John whispered harshly. “Come for me. Spill all over the floor.”

Sherlock keened a little, his hand pumping hard beneath him. He nodded his agreement, rotating his hips up and back for more of John inside him.

Seconds later, he froze, the gentle quaking of his body and the contractions of his internal muscles around John’s still-throbbing cock the only indication that he had come. John bit his lip hard to contain the long groan he ached to let go as he thrust deeply once more and held there, filling Sherlock’s hole with his seed.

Their ragged breathing was deafening in the quiet room. John pushed up and off Sherlock’s back as he began to surface. “All right, love?” he asked softly.

Sherlock was silent and still. His eyes were wide and he continued to stare at a fixed point on the far side of the room. John stroked the long back, waiting for the man to return to him.

Suddenly and without warning, John was shoved away. His cock popped from its warm sheath and he was left watching Sherlock drag his clothes back into place.

“Of course! The new headmaster—of course!!”

Sherlock did not kiss him, didn’t even look at him as he dragged his coat down and broke for the door.

“Sherlock…?” John said a bit weakly.

The man did not turn.

John barely had time to stuff his cock back into his trousers before the door was thrown open—revealing a clutch of very conspicuous coppers trying to look like they had a good reason to be standing in the corridor _just there_ —and Sherlock swept from the room.

“Lestrade!!!”

Donovan’s smiling face peered in through the doorway. “All right there, doc? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“Oh, just...sod off!!”

John flopped backwards onto the table and threw one arm over his eyes. God, what he did for justice.

And for love.


	17. A dangerous man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head and get ugly. John's not at all sure they can be fixed, but when he ends up out on Bart's rooftop he knows they must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a bit of a violent domestic and angry-sex/sort-of-dubcon.

“Here!” Sherlock shouted at the cab driver. As the car slowed on London Well, he threw the door open and leapt out.

John didn’t hurry to follow. They had not spoken again since the incident at Scotland Yard. The curious détente they’d managed in order to find a kidnapped child had come to an end. And now, three days later, Sherlock was as distant as ever.

When Lestrade called with a body in the middle of busy Finsbury Circus with no witnesses, John had been relieved. Getting out of the flat would do them both good, he was sure.

John paid the cabbie and made his way along Circus Place. As he reached the police tape, Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

“Sorry, sir,” the young female copper—a face new to John—said politely. “This is a crime scene. You’ll have to find another way ‘round.”

“Um…” John felt a clap on his shoulder.

“Thanks, PC Stark,” Lestrade said. “I’ll take it from here.” He guided John under the tape and across the street to the main part of the square. John could see Sherlock making his way toward the bandstand.

“Eager, as always,” Greg chuckled.

“Always,” John agreed. He suspected the attempt at cheer was not wholly convincing when Greg’s eyebrow shot up. “Uhm, congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks, yeah. It feels, well, fantastic, really,” Greg grinned. “Between Molly and this…brand new world, isn’t it?”

John nodded as they continued through the park gates.

“What about you two? Have you set a date or anything?”

“In a way,” John hedged. “Mycroft’s assistant has set some things up. We just have to confirm with her.”

“You don’t sound overly optimistic.”

“The truth is…we’re just going through a bit of a bad patch right now.”

“What happened?”

“He’s angry with me,” John replied, suddenly wishing he were not bound by the Official Secrets Act. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, we aren’t really speaking at the moment.”

“But what about the other day?”

“Ah, yes, well,” John started, lips pursed. “Special circumstances, you see.”

“But you’re still following him on cases.” Greg frowned.

“I know, I know,” John muttered. He watched the detective stoop with his magnifier in hand. “You said it yourself, though: He’s a great man. How could I do otherwise?”

“John, I know it’s none of my business, but are you absolutely sure this relationship is a good idea?” Greg shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You were friends and partners and you were really good together that way. I know you love him, but I know what he’s like.”

“He’s Sherlock,” John said softly.

Greg watched the man in question for a moment. “Yeah, all right, but if you aren’t happy…”

“That’s what’s mad,” John interjected. “I’m happier than I ever have been. Even now. I can’t give this up.”

Greg studied John for a moment before giving an understanding nod.

“You know what is funny, though,” John continued. “I stupidly believed this might be easier.”

“Easier? What, being with Sherlock?” Greg looked bewildered. “Good god. Easier than what?”

John shrugged. “Being with a woman. Don’t laugh!” He raised a hand to wave off Greg’s amusement. “I’d never been in a relationship with a man before. Somehow, I thought the bonus—on top of getting to be with Sherlock—might be sleeping with someone I didn’t have to work so hard to figure out. You know.”

Greg smirked. “Yeah, I think I do,” he chuckled. “I love women, but—god bless ‘em—sometimes I don’t understand ‘em at all.”

“And, as I have been told many times, they feel the same about us,” John sighed. “I just thought being with another man might, you know, bridge a few of those gaps. Less mystery, maybe.”

“Yeah, but…him?” Greg was starting to snicker.

“I know!” John shook his head at his own naiveté. “What on earth could be more complicated than a relationship with an antisocial, semi-insomniac, occasionally manic, borderline-anorexic, narcissistic genius with autism-spectrum-like tendencies and obsessive compulsive behaviours…a man who actually aspires to be a sociopath?”

“I—” Greg choked on the laughter he was struggling to contain. The newly minted Detective Chief Inspector grabbed John’s arm and led him away from his officers in an attempt to preserve his dignity. They stopped behind the wall and John started to giggle. The two men dissolved into laughter.

“You are delusional,” Greg sputtered.

“Jes—I know!” John choked out.

The tension relieved, John actually felt considerably better several minutes later as they collected themselves to return to the scene. His good mood lasted only until he came within earshot of Sally Donovan where she was addressing his fiancé.

“Oh, yeah? Well at least I don’t have to have my boyfriend shag me in a sodding police lounge to solve a case!”

Sherlock froze, his face devoid of expression. John started toward them. _Oh, this was going to be bad_.

“What the hell is that, eh?” she taunted, clearly provoked to recklessness. “You can’t get that fucking weird head to work anymore without a cock in your arse? Lucky for you you’ve got your faithful little pet!” She sneered in John’s direction as he approached. “He isn’t too hard to look at, I’ll grant you, but, jesus, how fucked up does he have to be to want to be with _you_?”

The detective moved swiftly turning back on Sally before she had time to react. He towered over her, eyes narrowed.

“Listen to me, and be very attentive—you know how I hate repeating myself. I am neither interested in nor concerned by your opinions about me. However…” His voice was utterly menacing. “If you ever speak about John in my presence again, I will bring to life every dark, violent, blood-soaked fantasy you have ever had about what I am capable of. Just. For. You.”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was subdued, utterly calm. Neither Sherlock nor Sally had noticed him standing just beside and slightly behind his fiancé. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm.

His lover ignored him for a moment, staring down a wide-eyed DI Donovan. John watched her, hoping she might laugh it off. She didn’t. John didn’t think he’d ever seen Sally truly frightened.

Sherlock turned suddenly and strode away. John turned to follow, struggling to keep up.

“Sherlock, slow down.”

The detective ducked under the crime scene tape and continued down the street, not looking back.

“Sherlock, what about the case?” John gestured to where Lestrade was hurrying after them.

“We’re done here,” Sherlock growled.

John caught up to him, marching double-time to keep up with the taller man’s long strides. Sherlock strode out onto Blomfield Street and turned left. They followed it around to where it became South Place. Sherlock flagged a cab. He grabbed the door and gestured at John.

“Get in.”

John stopped in front of him, looking up into his face. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Love, just...”

“Get. In.” The voice seethed with barely controlled rage.

John sighed. _Best to get him home and calmed down._ He climbed into the waiting car and settled on the seat, watching as Sherlock slid in beside him.

The driver turned, awaiting instructions. “221 Baker Street, please,” John said, trying to sound normal.

“Right-o, mate.” The cabbie stared at Sherlock. “Say, aren’t you that detective. The one what was dead?”

Drive,” Sherlock snarled. The man turned with a startled expression and pulled the car into gear. Sherlock rapped his fingers impatiently against the door.

“Sherlock, I know you’re angry,” John started. “But you know what Sally’s like. You shouldn’t have let her get to you.”

Sherlock stared at him, unflinching.

John felt a constriction in his throat. “Obviously she was angry, but I don’t care. I don’t care what she says about me.”

He waited for a response, but looked over to see Sherlock staring out the window, the muscle flexing in his tense jaw.

“You know it’s not true, don’t you?” John tried again. “You and I…maybe it isn’t like any other relationship…”

“Shut up.”

It was terse and cold. John felt a twinge of panic. He slid across the leather bench seat and reached for Sherlock’s hand.

“Love, please. Talk to me.”

Sherlock turned on him, a blur of dark wool, dark hair and now-dark eyes. He grabbed John roughly by the jaw and drew him in for a punishing kiss, tongue thrusting roughly between John’s lips. He captured John’s lower lip and bit down hard enough to draw blood.

He released John just as quickly, nearly shoving the man away from him. John recoiled, gasping, his temper rising. He swiped at the blood trickling over his chin.

“Right, that’s it,” he said, his tone as dark as his voice was quiet. He turned a cautious eye to their driver, who glanced back at them in the mirror. “I’ve had enough. This ends when we get home.”

When they finally reached 221B, John was the first out of the cab and onto the pavement. He did not wait or stop to pay the cab. He unlocked the door and walked through. He stopped in the foyer, quickly taking note that Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to be about, before he remembered that it was a Thursday—Mrs. H always went to the pictures on Thursday afternoon. He checked his watch; not much time, but hopefully they could have the worst of it out before their landlady came home.

He heard footsteps behind him; he was about to turn, intending to begin a decent shouting match, only to find himself slammed up against the wall. His cheekbone bounced off the plaster—he’d have a bruise there tomorrow.

“Jes—Sherlock—what the FUCK?”

Sherlock bit into his neck. Hard. John could feel blood. He shoved back, attempting to dislodge the man, but Sherlock held him firmly, twisting John’s arm up behind him. He could feel the man’s erection against his backside, more than a little ashamed as his own rose to the occasion.

“Get off, you bastard! Mrs. Hudson…”

Sherlock did not reply but instead used his free hand to undo John’s trousers and begin tugging at them. He dragged the waistband down as best he could—roughly—his fingernails catching against John’s skin. John hissed and slammed back against Sherlock once more.

“GET OFF!! Goddamnit!”

John’s breath was coming in short gasps. He was turned on, but…this was more than a bit not good.

 _Enough_.

John stomped hard on Sherlock’s instep and drove the elbow of his still-free arm into the taller man’s midsection. With a “whoof”, Sherlock’s grip released. John spun and tackled him.

John had always known Sherlock was stronger than he looked, but there had been only a few occasions on which he’d had to test that knowledge. This would not be an easy fight.

They grappled on the floor: a knee came up to slam into John’s ribs and he barked in pain; he released one of Sherlock’s hands to throw a punch and Sherlock snarled at him; Sherlock leaned in to smack at John’s face with his head, managing to land hard against his cheek and one side of his mouth, catching the already bleeding lip against teeth.

They flipped and flipped again, John’s undone trousers sliding further down with each wrench of the struggle. John finally regained the advantage. He hit Sherlock once more and took the opportunity to slide up and pin the man to the floor with his knees on Sherlock’s biceps. The legs beneath him thrashed, but John held on.

“Listen to me—LISTEN TO ME!!!” He grabbed at Sherlock’s face to hold him still. “You are not going to take something from me. All right? From us. I won’t let you. I’m GIVING this to you, do you understand??”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Do you understand?!” John shouted.

Sherlock nodded, ceasing to struggle. John moved tentatively, gradually removing his weight from his lover’s arms. He stood, backed away and hesitated. Sherlock stood also and hovered, looking for all the world like a tiger about to strike.

John licked his lips and reached down. He grasped the parted fabric of his trousers and tugged them down along with his red trunk pants. He watched as Sherlock followed their progress down over his thighs. The man’s lips parted as they puddled on the floor. John stepped out of them and waited.

Sherlock looked up to meet his eyes, nostrils flared. The changeable blue-green-grey had narrowed. The man looked feral.

And then he lunged.

John was ready this time. He caught the long, lean body in his arms as Sherlock drove him up against the wall. The thud as they hit resounded through the entryway. Somewhere in the back of John’s mind he knew they shouldn’t be doing this as Mrs. H. could be home any minute.

Sherlock attacked John’s mouth—teeth and tongue aggravating the existing injury and making new ones. John clung to him and kissed him back with all the heat and hunger and rage he felt.

Fingers twisted into his hair and pulled. John winced and thumped Sherlock’s back. The man gasped and moved to bite John’s collarbone. John hissed, but was almost immediately distracted by probing fingers at his arse.

“FUCK!” John’s eyes rolled back as Sherlock plunged one dry finger inside. It burned—jesus, it burned. But he would be damned if he would stop for lube now.

Sherlock moved in him like that for a few minutes, alternating between marking John’s neck and lapping the blood from his lips. John wound his hand between them and worked Sherlock’s trousers open. He wiggled one hand inside and grasped Sherlock’s cock. He was not gentle as he freed it. He tugged it with almost brutal efficiency, but there was little need: Sherlock was as hard as he needed to be to fuck him.

The finger was removed and John found himself thrown to the floor. He struggled to get up onto his hands and knees, hearing Sherlock spitting behind him and then fingers dug into his hips…

“ _Jesusbuggeringfuckinghell_!” John’s arms shook as Sherlock slammed into him, heedless of the minimal lubrication and lack of real preparation. John’s body clenched against the invasion, but Sherlock did not slow.

Hands dug into his shoulders as Sherlock began to move. John moaned as he struggled to accommodate the throbbing fullness pounding in and out of his hole. “Sherlock!”

The man covered John’s back and wrapped one arm around to grab at John’s now-limp cock. “OH, please. Please, I need—oh, god, yes. Yes. Yes.”

Sherlock stroked him back to hardness, over-stimulating the head and roughly fondling John’s balls. Sherlock grunted as John began to leak pre-come. He picked up the pace, both above and below.

In all, it probably lasted less than three minutes. John’s very sore bottom the next day would confirm that the duration mattered little. It was a hard, anger-fuelled, brutal fuck; far rougher than any sex they’d had.

When Sherlock slammed home and moaned through his climax, spilling into John’s abused body, John tipped over the edge. He shot all over the floor, shouting his lover’s name.

It was too much. All too much. John slid to the floor, Sherlock collapsing on top of him.

When the fog lifted, the warmth of Sherlock’s body disappeared. John turned in time to see the door slamming behind him.

_________________________________

John sat in his chair, staring straight ahead. His body ached—everywhere—but he didn’t have the mental energy to deal with it. The pain would keep.

Fear, on the other hand…

He’d called Lestrade and Molly. He’d even sent a note around via Sherlock’s homeless network.

Nothing.

He picked his phone up and dialled the number.

_“Hello, John. I’ve been expecting your call.”_

“Where is he, Mycroft?”

_“I can tell you he is safe. I am keeping watch, but I think it unwise for you to see him right now. He needs some time.”_

“Time?” John snapped. “Mycroft, he has been acting strangely for weeks—ever since Irene. Now we’ve had a row and he’s disappeared. I need to see him!”

_“Shouting at me won’t change anything, doctor.”_

“Mycroft…”

_“I warned you, John. I tried to make you understand. Sherlock simply may not be capable of maintaining a relationship. I care deeply for my brother; I have spent a lifetime safeguarding his interests—with or without his appreciation. But I am aware of his… limits.”_

“We can get through this.”

_“Are you certain of that? Sherlock does not cope well with his own misjudgements, and he does not forgive—or forget—easily. Believe me, I know.”_

“I have to try. I promised; I owe him that much. Please.”

_“And what about what he owes you?”_

John hesitated, but only for a moment. “He owes me honesty. And the chance to explain. Everything else…well, we’ll just see.”

_“John, I do agree, but now may not be the best time. Sherlock needs to process what has happened.”_

“He’s had more than a fortnight to process it!!

_“I meant what happened this evening.”_

“Damn it, Mycroft, if you’ve put cameras inside the flat again…”

 _“I have not.”_ The man sounded almost indignant. _“However, I have seen the state of my brother. I expect you have some marks of your own. It does not take a great deal of insight to develop a likely scenario.”_

“I didn’t mean to hurt him. And I know he didn’t mean to hurt me.”

_“Nevertheless, I think a cooling-down period might be in order. I will be in touch.”_

The phone went dead.

__________________________________

John was sat on the stairs with his jacket on, fidgeting.

Mrs. Hudson had returned home at last. She’d taken one look at him and very kindly made him a cuppa. After a scalding shower, he’d paced the flat for a bit, done the washing up, checked his emails and checked his phone again, even though it had made no noise. After half-listening to Top Gear, he’d finally come down to wait.

He was still angry, of course, but now he was afraid. Afraid of what Sherlock might do if he believed John might leave.

The phone call with Mycroft Holmes had done little to help. It had been infuriating. Just once he wished the Holmes brothers would not presume to know what everyone else needed. Damn them.

He knew to expect a return call, however. It had seemed prudent to be ready.

When his phone rang, he fumbled and nearly dropped it. He righted it quickly and answered.

“Yeah, hello—Mycroft?”

“John?”

“Molly? Hi? What’s—?”

“I…I have something of yours.”

John’s heart lurched. He jumped up and made for the front door. “Sherlock? He’s there? Thank god. Just…thank god. Can you keep him there?”

“I don’t think he’s planning to go anywhere.”

“Has he—is he all right?”

“He’s not okay, but he isn’t using. I’ve seen that and this is…different.”

John swiped a hand over his brow as he stepped out onto the pavement. An empty cab approached and he flagged it down. “Right. I’m on my way. Could you—I know you will—but…keep him safe until I get there?”

“I’ll try.”

“Thank you.”

John hung up as he crawled into the back of the cab. He gave the driver directions and tried hard not to panic. Sherlock had been gone for more than four hours, but if Molly said he wasn’t high…but she said he wasn’t okay. What did that mean, not okay? Was he physically injured?

_Stop it, Watson._

John twitched, willing the traffic to dissipate. Perhaps it might have been more expedient to call Lestrade—a siren would help.

At length, the storied walls of St. Bart’s came into view. John practically leapt from the cab as soon as it had slowed (he tried not to think about the last time he had done that). He raced through the corridors and went directly to Molly’s lab. He burst through the door at a run…

Empty.

“Molly?” John turned. “Sherlock?”

As he stepped back into the hallway, his phone rang.

“John? We’re…he’s on the roof but don’t panic. I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Jesus.”

“Hurry.”

In his life, John had run often and for many different reasons. Never before had he run so fast.

He slammed through the door to the roof, his heart in his mouth.

Molly turned; hand up in a gesture of restraint. “It’s okay, John. He just wanted some air. Said he couldn’t think downstairs.”

John approached cautiously—Sherlock was seated on the ledge, his back to the open air. His face was turned up to the moonlight that was trying to peek through the clouds, eyes closed. Molly was standing near, only a few steps away, one hand on her growing bump. She was shivering.

“You should go in,” John said to her, reaching out to place a hand on her back. “It’s too cold for you out here.”

“John, what—” She raised a hand to John’s bruised and broken face. “You look as bad as he does.”

“It was an ugly row,” John admitted softly.

Molly looked back at Sherlock once more then smiled sadly at John. “He’s hurting and he’s frightened,” she whispered. “He’ll never say, but I can tell.”

John nodded, leaning in to place a kiss on her brow. “Thank you. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

Molly nodded, eyes brimming and made her way back to the door to the stairs. John didn’t watch her go—he refused to take his eyes from the man he loved. He hadn’t looked away before; he wouldn’t now.

“Sherlock?” He took a few tentative steps forward.

“I’m not going to jump.” He hadn’t moved nor opened his eyes.

John swallowed hard. “I…I know. I just—you’re making me really nervous, love.”

“No need; it’s perfectly safe and I am not so inclined. Generally,” he said softly. “I needed to think. I tried walking the city, but I needed…a friend.”

“I’m glad you came to Molly.”

“She suggested that I could not reach any satisfactory conclusions without you.”

“Did she?” John smiled half-heartedly. “She’s a wise woman.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

John paused. “Can you—can you tell me what’s been bothering you? You’ve pushed me away since Irene—”

“I don’t know how to be a partner, John,” Sherlock said, finally meeting his eyes. “I don’t know how to be a husband.”

“Well, neither do I, really,” John admitted, taking another step closer. “We’ll figure it out together.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

John’s heart ached, and a chill gathered in his midsection.

Sherlock regarded him. “I am ill-equipped to need someone, John. I told you I don’t know how to be me without you anymore and that is…” He looked away, struggling for the words. “It frightens me. Still I cannot shake the need: feeling connected to you, hoping you will smile when I’ve been clever, knowing you will be behind me in a fight...”

John swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. About Irene. It was heavy-handed of me. I should have found another way.”

“You didn’t trust me. It…hurt.”

“I didn’t trust _her_ , Sherlock. But I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” John whispered. “Forgive me.”

Sherlock nodded weakly, lost in thought.

“You started to pull away from me, a couple of months ago,” John continued. “Was that the beginning?”

“Yes. When I found myself unable even to nap without you. Then you told me you slept better with me nearby, and I suppose I became distressed.”

“All right. But why?”

“I cannot be this dependent on someone, John,” Sherlock said sharply. “Or have someone be this dependent on me. I thought perhaps if I continued to try, to give it time, this concern would alleviate itself, but I am _not_ dependable!”

“Sherlock…”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “No, you know I’m right. What people have said about me—they’re all right. I am a freak. A menace. A sociopath. I ruin people, John. I will ruin you.” He gestured to John’s face. “What I did…”

“That wasn’t just you.”

“God, listen to yourself! I tried to force you to—and you’re still trying to find excuses for me! I am a dangerous man. How could you possibly love me?!”

Sherlock sighed heavily, now staring at his shoes. He waved a hand at the rooftop. “Moriarty was right; we are the same.”

“NO! Don’t you _ever_ say that to me! Especially here,” John snarled. “You are nothing like that bastard. You may have _faked_ your death in this place, but you gave three years of your life to protect the people you care about. To protect _me_. These are not the actions of a sociopath, of a man who does not know how to love!”

Sherlock’s expression was inscrutable, but he said nothing.

“I was so alone, Sherlock. You have given me so much…” John broke off, his throat closing. He dropped to his knees, his hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s thighs. “If this has been too much for you, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I knew it would be a change. I knew it would take some adjustment, but…”

“Hardly your fault. I wanted this. More than I have ever wanted anything in my life,” Sherlock whispered. “I just—John, what if I simply cannot learn how to manage all these feelings?” He reached up to caress John’s bruised cheek with a steady hand. “I’ve spent my life trying not to feel anything. I feared being overwhelmed; can you imagine how that is amplified when one falls in love?

John nodded. “I know this won’t be easy, but please, Sherlock…”

Sherlock rubbed a gentle thumb over John’s split lip. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

John grabbed the man’s sleeve and pulled. Hard. Sherlock landed on his knees in front of John whose arms immediately enfolded him. John buried his face in the man’s neck with a choked sob.

“Never letting you go. Never!” John’s voice was gruff. “I will take whatever you can give me, and I am not going anywhere. This is just one more thing we’ll figure out together. Because that’s what we do.”

Sherlock flattened his palms against John’s back. “I know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you,” John repeated.

“I know.”

“I can’t promise not to do something like that again—not if it means protecting you,” John continued, sniffling. “Frankly, if she comes back again, I will probably shoot her.”

“I understand.”

“But I will never go behind your back.”

“I’m sorry. For what I said, oh, god, what I…did—I know it was unforgivable. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Not unforgivable,” John soothed. “We were both angry and you were struggling. Things just got out of hand.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

John placed a tender kiss on his lover’s bruised cheek. “It’s okay, love. We’ve got this now, yeah? We’ll work on it together.”

Sherlock nodded, holding tight.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

John pulled back so they were face to face. “You’ll tell me next time.” He stroked the messy curls. “When it becomes too much, when you feel like you’re losing yourself in me, in us? Promise you’ll say, so we can fix it.”

Sherlock’s smile was crooked. He nodded. “Promise.”

“Good. Now then, can we please go home?” John begged.

“Home,” Sherlock agreed with an uncertain smile. “Yes. Home would be good.”

“Thank god,” John breathed. He looked around them as they got to their feet. “Honestly, I am beginning to hate this place.”

“I suppose I should ring my brother,” Sherlock muttered as they reached the door to the stairs. “Let him know we'll still need that special license.”

“Special license?” John tried to sound surprised.

“Oh, my dear John,” Sherlock chuckled. “You really are the most appalling liar.”


	18. Happily ever after, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happy day has finally arrived, but--of course--nothing goes as planned.

John straightened his tie. “Does this look all right?”

Harry stopped in the corridor and popped her head into her spare room where John had been camped out overnight. “Fine. Nice, actually.” Her gaze swept over the immaculately tailored navy suit and the lilac tie. “I take it you didn’t pick it out.”

“That’s lovely. You should be sweet to me, you know,” he teased. “I’m getting married. I may not be a bride, but it’s still my ‘special day.’”

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry muttered, eyes rolling. She disappeared in the direction of her own room, still nursing her coffee.

They’d managed to sit up most of the night chatting. The improvement in their relationship was still something of a revelation to John. He couldn’t help but think that her friendship with Mycroft (who would have believed that) and her new relationship with his lovely and enigmatic PA, Jane, had something to do with it. She’d been happier and more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.

“I’m going to make my way,” John called. “I’ll meet you there, yeah?”

“Why so early—wait!” There was a scuffling noise and she reappeared in the doorway. “Don’t you _dare_ go back to Baker Street! It’s bad luck and you know it.”

John shuffled his feet. “But I…”

Harry melted a little. She stepped into the room and patted his cheek. “I know you miss him, but it won’t be long now. Just go down to the caf on the corner and have something to eat. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

John nodded. Harry turned again and disappeared as he took one more look in the mirror with a sigh. “I guess I could do with a bite.”

“Have a fry up. We’ve loads of time. But try not to get brown sauce on your suit!” Harry called from her room.

John trudged from the flat and down the stairs trying not to think about the last time he’d been in Sherlock’s arms. It seemed ages, but in truth it had been only one night. One very long night.

He knew he’d been especially soppy and sentimental in the weeks leading up to the wedding (Sherlock had brought it to his attention in his inimitably blunt fashion), but he couldn’t help it. He was about to marry the love of his life.

He stopped at the front door to check his pockets for his wallet, which was there, before throwing the door open and stepping out onto the pavement.

A strong arm draped over his shoulders. “Good morning, Dr. Watson.”

“What—”

There was a sharp, stinging sensation in his upper arm. John turned to look at the large man with the thick accent who’d administered the injection as things began to grow fuzzy.

“Just relax, doctor.”

The world went black.

________________________

“John. John. JOHN!”

“Sherl—where…?” John emerged from his drug-induced fog, slowly lifting his head in response to his lover’s voice. “Sherlock?”

“I’m right here,” the deep voice replied calmly. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

“Nnno,” John shook his head, grunting with the exertion and slowly coming to the realization that his arms were restrained behind him. He opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the familiar voice. “What happened?”

Sherlock was tied to a chair beside him, sporting a rather remarkable gash on his forehead. The man exhaled heavily. “Abduction, apparently. Mrs. Hudson asked me to answer the door, assuming it was Mycroft’s car. I was meant to have breakfast with him at that stupid club of his,” he said sharply. “This would never have happened if it weren’t for my brother.”

“Can’t blame him for everything,” John grumbled. “Did they drug you?”

“They tried.”

“So who are they, then?” John asked, looking about the dark, dank space in which they were being held. Hissing and the loud squealing of steam came from the large pipes overhead. Somewhere not too far away, John could hear the sounds of the underground. “Chinese gangsters? CIA? Minions of a former dominatrix, perhaps?”

“That might be more pleasant.”

“Oi!”

“I meant the CIA, John,” Sherlock sighed. “Don’t be so sensitive.”

John sniffed, feeling groggy and out-of-sorts. “Who is it?”

“Unless I miss my guess, Russian mob.”

“Thought you didn’t guess.”

“Thought you knew better than that by now.”

“And what do they want with you—us?”

“I…” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I may have cost them a bit of money while I was in Paris.”

“When you were dead? What did you do?”

“I happened to notice there was a counterfeiting operation fronted by a small tobacconist shop.”

“Great. That’s just great. We’re going to die because you can’t even smoke without getting yourself into trouble.”

“This has all been very entertaining,” a cultured Russian voice drawled from the darkness. “But I’m afraid the time for talk has passed. Mr. Holmes, you did cost me money in Paris. Quite a substantial amount, in fact.”

“Completely unintentional, I assure you.”

“That may be. However, I feel compelled to redeem my lost revenue. And you are going to help me.”

“I doubt that very much.”

A short, very obese man stepped into the dim light provided by an industrial fixture near the door of their small room. “Oh, Mr. Holmes. Is this really necessary? You will help me—it is not a question of if, but when. Why do you think we bothered with the good doctor, here?”

Sherlock offered no sign he’d felt anything at that last remark. He looked away, feigning indifference. “He’s my blogger.”

The large man tsked. “He is your lover. You _have_ managed to keep that from the public, for the most part, but then I’m not the public, am I?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I have here some very important blueprints,” the large man gestured with one hand and one of the henchmen dropped an iPad into it. “The problem is they are encrypted with a cipher I have never seen before. No one has ever seen it before—believe me, I’ve asked.”

“I’m not a cryptographer,” Sherlock replied, sounding very bored.

“And since this is not a typical cipher, I don’t believe that will be a problem. This requires unconventional thinking. Naturally, I thought of you.”

Sherlock huffed. “Fine. I’ll look. But I can’t make any promises.”

John watched the large man and his two henchmen carefully, feeling his restraints with as little movement as possible. Zip ties, he realized with a sinking feeling.

“You’ll look, and you will find a solution.” One of the thugs raised a pistol with laser sight and directed the little red dot to John’s forehead.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Bit cliché, don’t you think?”

The large man smiled. “I’m a traditionalist.”

“I’ll need my hands.”

“I’ll give you one,” the man replied, nodding at the second thug. The man stepped behind Sherlock and released his right hand, quickly re-fastening his left to the chair support.

Sherlock looked almost amused as the large man stepped in front of him. He held the iPad, supporting it so Sherlock could work.

All three men were focused on Sherlock now—the one holding the gun had apparently decided he didn’t need to maintain eye contact with his stationary target. John ran his hands over the edges of the metal chair hoping for…

 _Result!_ John stifled a wince as he caught his thumb on a steel spur on the crossbar of the seat back. _Thank god for shoddy manufacturing_. He began to rub the plastic around his wrists against the sharp metal.

Sherlock cast a look at John then set to work, his fingers dancing over the touch screen. John glanced back at the man pointing the gun at him from time to time; fortunately, he too was entranced by the show.

Time passed slowly, it seemed to John. He knew Sherlock was stalling; he just hoped it would give him enough time.

“Ten minutes, Mr. Holmes,” the Russian said eventually. “I’m a little disappointed.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to go on,” Sherlock replied coldly.

John felt the plastic begin to give. He took one last swipe before the restraints gave way. He coughed to cover the snap, though he felt certain it would be covered by the ambient noise in the room. He sat very still for a moment until he was very sure both of the Russian’s men were unaware of his freedom.

He glanced across at Sherlock, who he knew could see him in his peripheral vision. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped.

“There.”

The Russian looked pleased. “You have it?”

“Of course.” Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. John lifted his chin.

The Russian pulled the iPad back and turned it to face himself. As he did, Sherlock and John moved together.

John drove from his seat in a low rugby tackle, catching the man with the gun unawares and cutting him off at the knees while effectively remaining below his gun sight. Simultaneously, Sherlock stood as he released the iPad, swinging the chair with the hand still attached and catching the man at his arm with it. The man flew sideways, his skull thumping against the old cinderblock walls. Sherlock grabbed the chair with both hands and drove the Russian—now trying to draw a weapon from his jacket—back toward the dark side of the room with it, like a lion tamer.

John grappled with his much larger opponent, taking several hard hits. Fortunately, the man’s weapon had skidded to the far side of the room. _Still_ , John thought to himself as a meaty fist connected with his midsection, that hadn’t really improved his situation by much. The man was still twice his size and paid to stay fit. And—oh…

John read the next swing and feinted; the larger man’s fist swept over his head. John captured the flailing arm and snapped. He heard the elbow dislocating; the man howled in pain. He grabbed at John with his free hand.

“VATICAN CAMEOS!!”

John hit the floor at the sound of his lover’s voice coming from the darkness. John’s opponent turned at the sound of the voice; Sherlock’s chair flew from the shadows and struck him in the side of the head with a sickening thunk.

Sherlock appeared then, panting but otherwise relatively unharmed.

“I did have him,” John protested as he stood, giving Sherlock a quick visual once-over as the man approached.

“Naturally,” Sherlock said mildly, running an assessing hand over John’s body before moving to wipe the blood from John’s mouth. “I simply needed somewhere to put the chair.”

“Of course,” John smiled. He reached for Sherlock, intending to share a victorious kiss. They both jumped when the second henchman—the one Sherlock had knocked out first—twitched.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock said, clasping John’s hand as he turned back to the dark side of the room. “I think we’d best celebrate somewhere else.”

John followed, straining to see where they were going and nearly stumbling over the Russian mobster. “Is there a way out…?”

Sherlock dropped to his knees as they reached the far wall. He released John’s hand to struggle with what looked, in the very dim light, like a metal grate. “Yes. Well, sort of.”

The grate squealed in protest as Sherlock tugged it free, revealing what John could only assume was a large air duct.

“No.”

“John…”

“NO!” John shook his head violently. “Perfectly good door back there—no need for squeezing through some cramped, airless little tube that leads god only knows where…”

Sherlock stood. “Interesting. I hadn’t realized you were claustrophobic. How did I miss that?” He stroked John’s cheek fondly. “Endlessly fascinating.”

“I—” John’s response died in his throat when a bullet ricocheted wildly off the wall between them, causing them both to duck. John looked back to the where the mobster had awakened and was now lying on his side shakily aiming an old pistol in their general direction.

“Sorry, my dear,” Sherlock said abruptly, and far too cheerfully for John’s liking. “Afraid the door is no longer an option. Off we go!”

John was dragged to the floor and shoved into the air duct as another shot bounced off the wall above them. “Jes—his aim is terrible!”

“It is dark,” Sherlock hissed, pushing John forward so he could squeeze in after. “And I’m fairly certain I fractured his skull. But keep moving! No point in taking chances.”

John swallowed hard as he begun shuffling forward on hands and knees, taking some comfort from Sherlock’s presence behind him. “Aren’t you worried he’ll follow us?”

“He’ll never fit,” Sherlock replied calmly. “Swiftly, John!” The good doctor started as the man’s hand smacked his bottom. “We don’t want to keep our guests waiting!”

“Our—that’s what you’re thinking about right now?” John whinged, following the duct to the left. He peered into the dark tube as he progressed and prayed it led to another room…and not, say, some sort of giant fan with very sharp blades. Or a furnace.

“It’s our wedding day,” Sherlock replied brightly. “What else should I be thinking about?”

John chuckled, head drooping. “Nothing at all, my love,” he replied, trying to keep his nerves from his voice. “Nothing at all.”


	19. Happily ever after, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are vows and very happy ending.

“When we get out of here, remind me to talk to Mycroft about his naff surveillance,” John griped, trying to ignore the squelching noises under his feet. The air duct (which, John would remind Sherlock later, HAD narrowed considerably before the end, before dropping them both into a large puddle of something quite foul) had opened out into the tunnel they were currently in. The light had improved somewhat the closer they’d got to the tube, but the dark shaft had a persistent, damp, sewer-like character. “Is there anyone in London who hasn’t kidnapped us, at least once?”

“I’m sure someone has already been sacked as a result of our little misadventure. But we won’t have time for Mycroft. Once we’ve navigated our way to Victoria Station, which should be a little less than half a kilometre…mmmmm…that way.” He pointed just ahead toward the junction where their tunnel diverged into two, indicating the left option. “We’ll be keeping our appointment at the register office and leaving immediately for a traditional connubial holiday.”

“A honeymoon?” John stopped dead. “You planned a honeymoon?”

Sherlock had continued several steps. He turned and trudged back to where John was. “Of course I did. You need a vacation, John. In spite of your increased sentimentality, you’ve been somewhat short-tempered for weeks. And you fell asleep in the middle of a particularly interesting sexual position last Tuesday—never a good sign. So…you need a rest…we’re getting married. Seemed a perfectly convenient confluence.”

John felt a fuzzy warmth spreading through his chest. “My god, I love you. “

Sherlock’s smile was almost shy. “You’re pleased.”

“Of course I’m pleased! I—I am—I am the luckiest man in England,” John stammered overwhelmed by emotions he hadn’t expected to feel until they were standing before their friends and family. “I don’t understand why I was fortunate enough to find you. Whether there is a god somewhere, or a universal intelligence, or little white mice, or if it is just fate or blind bloody luck. I get to spend the rest of my life with the most amazing man I have ever known.”

“Little white mice?” The crinkle appeared between Sherlock’s brows.

“Never mind,” John laughed. “The thing is: I just didn’t expect…you. In my life. You are utterly fascinating; occasionally infuriating; always funny; sometimes noble, even if you don’t believe it. You are exciting and not just a little bit scary. And you are absolutely bloody perfect for me. I wake up some mornings and look at you and I honestly can’t remember what I was before you.  And I don’t want to. No one should be this happy, Sherlock. As Mrs. H would say, it isn’t decent.”

Sherlock watched John carefully, absorbing the words and tracing the path of the one tear that had escaped from John’s brimming eyes. “I have always regarded emotions as a weakness, and the people connected to feelings as a liability,” he said, his voice very deep. “I did not believe I would ever see the need to attach myself to another human being. In fact, I constructed a life that made such an occurrence almost impossible. And then one day you limped into my lab.” Sherlock smirked. “I knew immediately you were different. Dangerous. The way you made me feel—it should have frightened me off. Frankly, the logical thing would have been to send you packing after our first set-to with Moriarty.” He sighed. “You make me vulnerable, John. But rather than making me weak, you make me stronger than I have ever been. I need you. And I love you. Very much.” He looked at his shoes. “You said once that you couldn’t imagine being attracted to any man but me. I am…unique…in your life. Likewise, you are matchless in mine.”

John moved with speed that surprised them both, burying his hand in the dark curls he loved and dragging Sherlock’s mouth to his own. It was a hard kiss—affirming, agreeing. Promising.

Sherlock’s arms wound around him, binding them together from knees to chest. John tasted his fiancé’s mouth, sucking on the full bottom lip with a sigh of complete satisfaction.

When they finally drew apart, John was surprised to see a certain dewy dampness in Sherlock’s eyes as well.

“We have a wedding to get to.”

“We do,” Sherlock agreed, the corners of his mouth curling up. He turned abruptly and grasped John’s hand firmly, dragging him through the dank tunnel. “Come on, John. Keep up.”

______________

“You two gonna tell me?” Greg asked, looking none too confident. He walked beside them into the Old Marylebone Town Hall from where he’d met them at the curb. They’d called him the minute they’d emerged into Victoria Station, and he’d sent a car immediately. Sherlock had decided not to fuss about riding in a police car (John had advised him that, given their state, it was unlikely they would get a cab to take them).

“Mycroft can fill you in. I’m sure he knows by now,” Sherlock offered.

“He told me some,” Greg acknowledged. “But Harry said something about an attempted elopement?”

Sherlock and John shared a smile. Of course Mycroft would have a cover story for her.

“You can always wait until I post it on the blog. When we get back,” John suggested. He navigated the corridors, making his way toward the Blue Room where he knew everyone was waiting for them.

“Get back?”

“From our honeymoon,” Sherlock supplied, trying (and failing) to look completely nonchalant.

“My go—honeymoon?” Greg sputtered, falling a few paces behind.

A few minutes later, they strode into the elegant room, hand in hand. John was grinning like a fool; Sherlock still managed to look smug. John glanced about, feeling a little overwhelmed: the most important people in his world were all standing right there. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Johnny, what have you been—?” Harry sounded very worried.

John held up a hand. “’Lo everyone,” he started. “Thanks for waiting for us. We had a little, uh, difficulty…on the way here. But we’re fine. Won’t be a moment.”

He dragged Sherlock with him across the room to where the registrar was waiting. She looked them both up and down with a combination of distaste and shock. John glanced behind her to where he could just glimpse their reflection in the window.

It was not, perhaps, their finest hour: John’s mouth, nose and cheek were still bleeding and some fantastic bruises were already forming. Likewise, Sherlock’s jaw was bruising and the gash on his forehead had bled all over the one side of his face. His own suit was torn, as was the steel blue Boss number Sherlock was wearing, with a shirt the same colour as John’s tie. They were both dirty and he was pretty sure they smelled as bad as they looked.

“Are you—are you quite certain you wish to proceed today?” the woman asked softly, looking a little alarmed. “I’m sure we could postpone and allow you some time to recover from your…whatever…ordeal…you have just survived.”

Sherlock and John looked at each other. The question lit the taller man’s eyes; the answer came in the subtle dip of John’s chin.

John started to turn, intending to announce their plan to continue, only to find himself swallowed up by the waiting hands of their assembled friends. There was a sudden din of clucking tongues.

“I’ll do the clothes,” Harry stated firmly. She tugged John’s jacket off, then worked on Sherlock’s. She left in the direction of the washroom.

“We’ll bring some coffee.” John watched Mike and his wife disappear back into the corridor.

“I have the flowers, when you’re ready,” Molly interjected. She held up the two boutonnieres that matched the one Mycroft was already wearing as well as the small corsage on Harry’s suit jacket. Greg wrapped an arm around Molly and slid the other hand protectively over her soon-to-be burgeoning belly.

“Let’s get them cleaned up,” Mycroft insisted.

Mycroft (or one of his minions) acquired a bowl of warm water from somewhere. He dipped his pocket square into it and began dabbing at Sherlock’s bloody forehead. Meanwhile Mrs. Hudson dampened her handkerchief and attempted to swab some of the mess from John’s face.

“Wait, wait,” the registrar called out, her hands waving. “This is all very touching, but I do have other couples waiting.”

“I believe you will find your schedule has been cleared,” Mycroft said abruptly. John noted Jane tapping furiously on her phone. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sherlock—stand still!”

Several minutes later, somewhat cleaner and sustained by hot coffee, John and Sherlock prepared to take their vows. Molly and Greg each took a lapel and pinned on the lovely orchids Harry and Jane had selected.

They turned to face the registrar, who shook her head with an amused expression. “Well, I will say this is one of the most unusual marriage ceremonies I have ever performed. Of course, one of my colleagues had circus people, so I suppose it’s all relative.” She smiled kindly at them. “Ready?”

John nodded firmly, squeezing his fiancé’s hand and feeling a tremendous sense of security when the caress was returned.

“Now then, ordinarily we would do the preliminaries in my office ahead, but as we’re all here, we’ll just press on. The payments have been dealt with; do we have all the necessary documents?”

Mycroft stepped forward from his position just slightly behind Sherlock’s shoulder and handed her a large envelope.

She took a moment to check through everything, nodding. She came to the special license Mycroft had procured and her eyes widened. She looked up at the two men with a little more curiosity and then, with some awe, at Mycroft—the man who’d so mysteriously made her other appointments disappear. Finally she spoke. “All in good order.”

The registrar set the paperwork aside and focused her attention back on the couple and their wedding guests.

“We are here today to witness the marriage of Sherlock and John, and on their behalf, I would like to thank you for joining them to witness the start of their new life together. I know it means a great deal to them that you can be here to share in their happiness on this occasion.”

“Through their vows they are making a commitment to each other for the rest of their lives. Marriage is not an easy path. It requires devotion, the ability to listen, the wisdom to know when we are wrong, and the strength to put things right.”

Sherlock glanced down at John, who winked at him.

“For Sherlock and John, getting married today is a proud confirmation of the love, the respect, and the true friendship that they have for each other. Together they will be stronger to meet whatever life holds for them. Sherlock,” she nodded at the taller man before turning her attention to John. “And John, today you will exchange vows which will unite you. The words are a formal and public pledge of your love, and a promise of lifelong dedication to each other.”

John smiled at that. Whatever else they might face, that promise, he knew, was the easiest he would ever make.

“Before you are joined in matrimony it is my duty to remind you of the solemn and binding character of the vows you are about to make,” the registrar continued. “Marriage according to the law of this country is the union of two people voluntarily entered into for life to the exclusion of all others.”

She smiled at them both now.

“I am now going to ask each of you to declare that you know of no lawful reason why you may not be joined in matrimony to each other. Sherlock, will you please repeat after m—”

"I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Sherlock Albert, may not be joined in matrimony to John Hamish."

The registrar’s mouth was still hanging open on an unfinished sentence. “I, oh. But…”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “He does that. Very irritating. But sufficient, yes?”

She nodded. “John, would you like to…”

“Can I just—what he did?”

“Well…yes, I suppose.”

"I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, John Hamish, may not be joined in matrimony to Sherlock Albert. Albert? Really? That’s what you didn’t want me to know?"

“Shut up,” Sherlock growled, the hint of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

“Sherlock and John, you have gathered about you those whom you love most. You invited them here to receive their encouragement and support, and to celebrate with you at this special time. I ask you now in the presence of this company: Sherlock, will you take John to be your husband? Will you comfort him in life’s sorrow and pain, will you rejoice with him through good times, and will you remain true to him for the rest of your lives together?”

“I will.”

“And John, will you take Sherlock to be your husband? Will you comfort him in life’s sorrow and pain, will you rejoice with him through good times, and will you remain true to him for the rest of your lives together?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.” John grinned.

“I…uhm….” The poor woman hesitated again, glancing at Mycroft. He managed a stiff nod before his eyes rolled back in his head. She reflected the nod and continued. “Right, well then…” She turned her attention to the guests. “Now that these two people are going to contract their marriage in front of you, their witnesses, will you all please stand?”

There was a brief shuffling as the few people in the room not already on their feet rose.

Sherlock glanced up at the registrar. She inclined her head, not bothering to offer to feed him his lines a second time.

"I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Sherlock, do take thee John, to be my lawful wedded husband, to love and to cherish, for the rest of our lives together.”

The registrar nodded at John. "I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, John, do take thee Sherlock, to be my lawful wedded husband. God help me, I do.”

Sherlock began to chuckle, the rich sound soon erupting into open laughter. John joined him, sharing the private joke from the day of their engagement. Mycroft sighed heavily; Harry poked her brother in the back.

The registrar hesitated. “I guess that’s all right,” she glanced in Mycroft’s direction again. The man offered her a tight smile. “If someone has the rings?”

“Ah, we…” John started. “We’re only doing the one ring, really. The other is…well, you’ll see it.”

Mycroft reached into his breast pocket and produced the same small box Sherlock had given John on the day he proposed. He opened it and held it, allowing Sherlock to remove the heirloom ring.

“I’ve had something added,” Sherlock said solemnly, reaching for John’s hand. John peered in as Sherlock held the ring for him to read the inscription along the inner edge.

 _My_ ♥ _was in your keeping_

“Turns out I did have one,” Sherlock said softly, with a smile that was just for John. “It was always with you.”

John sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His left hand was shaking slightly as Sherlock slid the ring over his finger and said, “I give you this ring, as a symbol of my love and commitment.”

John turned then to retrieve his small, cardboard box from Harry. She lifted the lid and allowed him to remove his dog tags from it.

“I, uh, I added something, as well,” he said softly.

He separated the tags so Sherlock could see that the standard duplicate of the one bearing John’s name and ID had been removed and a new one had been added in its place. It was engraved, too: _Always with you; always yours._

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the new tag, nodding his approval and looking a little shaken. He dropped his head and allowed John to slip them over his head. “And I give you these as a symbol of my love and commitment.”

The registrar smiled at John quite genuinely. “And now, if you two would like to share your personal vows with one another.”

John turned to Sherlock and took both his hands, preparing to recite the vows he’d fussed over for weeks. But looking up into the pale eyes, he faltered. After what they’d shared in the tunnel, what more was there to say?

Sherlock, as always, was a step ahead. He nodded his agreement to what had not yet been spoken.

John turned to face the small company of their loved ones. “You lot are the most important people in our lives, and we are so grateful you’re here. But if it’s all the same to you, Sherlock and I have decided that we’ve said everything we have to say to one another. As mad as it is, we love each other and we want to be bound together for the rest of our lives. I promise not to murder him and he promises not to get me killed. So there you have it.”

Greg burst out laughing first, a surprisingly high-pitched and girly sound for a masculine man with such a deep voice. Molly began to titter with him, clutching his hand. Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her cheeks with a fresh hanky, laughing through her tears. Mike shook his head, chuckling. His wife, Susan, looked amused if not a little bewildered. He leaned over and whispered in her ear—promising to explain it all to her later, John guessed. Harry and Jane were laughing out loud. Harry wrapped her arms around John quickly and kissed his cheek, remembering to wipe the lipstick away afterward. Mycroft’s expression was inscrutable, but in an uncharacteristic display of brotherly affection, he wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and squeezed once before letting go.

The registrar shrugged. “Well, then, I suppose that’s that. All that remains is for me to confirm that you have both made the declarations required by law, and have made solemn promises to each other in the presence of your friends and family gathered here today. This day is the start of a new life for you together. We all hope that the feelings of love that you have for each other will deepen and grow ever stronger throughout the years to come. It gives me great pleasure to declare that you are now married.” She gestured toward them. “Congratulations, you may now kiss.”

John waited, deciding to let Sherlock take the lead. One long-fingered, elegant hand came up and stroked his cheek before sliding around to his nape. Sherlock drew John gently up, tilting his own head as he brought their lips together.

It reminded John of their very first kiss—soft and just a little tentative. He leaned into the touch, wrapping both arms around Sherlock’s waist and thinking wildly that this was a first kiss, too: their first as married men.

He pulled back at the sound of applause behind them. He noted the hint of colour on his new husband’s cheeks as they turned to receive the good wishes of their family and friends. Sherlock held tight to his hand.

At length, once the appropriate signatures had been collected, Mycroft interrupted the joyful banter. “And now, everyone, Sherlock’s friend Angelo has refreshments waiting for us at his restaurant. However, the happy couple will not be joining us as they have a plane to catch.”

John and Sherlock were ushered by their small group back through the old building and out to the front street. Greg hailed a cab for them. Jane handed Mycroft an envelope, which he in turn handed to Sherlock.

“Felicitations,” he said over the din of the traffic. “I trust you will find a way to make use of this, if not now then in the years to come.”

Sherlock nodded. John reached out for Mycroft’s hand and shook it firmly. “Mycroft.”

The taller man raised a brow. “I said once that either you would be the making of my brother or you would make him worse than ever.”

“And?”

“I’m beginning to believe the two are not mutually exclusive,” Mycroft smirked.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“And so you should,” Sherlock interjected.

“Johnny?”

John turned and hugged his sister.

“Sherlock asked me to pack you a bag. I was going to say I hope I put in the right kit, but I’m guessing you won’t be dressed much anyway,” Harry teased. “Everything is waiting for you at the airport. Mycroft tells me there is a private lounge you can use to clean up and change before your flight. Have a wonderful time.”

“Thanks, Harry. You’ve been…”

“You’re welcome,” Harry cut in. “It’s long overdue.”

John turned back to find Sherlock clasping Mrs. Hudson to him as she continued to cry happy tears. She turned to John for the same treatment before they were herded to the curb and shoved into the waiting cab.

“Take care, you two,” Mike said with a wave.

“Be good,” Greg cautioned. “Don’t do anything I’ll find out about.”

“Good lord,” Mycroft groaned. “Nor me.”

“Send postcards,” Molly called.

The door closed and John collapsed against the seat, leaning into his husband’s shoulder. Sherlock looked at the envelope still in his hand.

“What is it, do you know?” John asked.

“No idea,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, go on.”

Sherlock tore the end of the envelope away; an old skeleton key slipped out and landed in his lap along with a small picture frame. He picked up the key while John grabbed the frame and turned it over.

“But…how?” John stared at the photo of the whitewashed cottage surrounded by rose bushes. “I dreamed this,” he said, stunned.

“Really? When?” Sherlock turned the picture toward him to have a look.

“That night,” John replied softly. “That very first night.”

Sherlock was pensive, regarding their wedding present as he laced their fingers together.

“John, how do you feel about bees?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew!!! These last few chapters were the hardest to write and I'm not sure they are my best. Nevertheless, I hope you've enjoyed this. Thanks for reading and for all the lovely kudos/comments along the way. My special thanks to the lovely people at the Westminster Register office, who sent me a copy of the sample service, even though I am not getting married! 
> 
> There may, possibly, be a honeymoon epilogue...


	20. Wedding photo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft sends a snap to the boys on honeymoon.

To: [sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.com](mailto:sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.com)

From: [mh@homeoffice.gov.uk](mailto:mh@homeoffice.gov.uk)

I have attached a “wedding photo”—Stamford’s wife snapped it before I could prevent her. Still, it is amusing, and so very _you_. Thought it would be an appropriate souvenir. I have, however, rescheduled the official photographer for the 31 st. Hopefully the injuries will have healed by then. I have reordered your suit; please let John know Harry has done likewise. Apparently the young man who did his fitting remembers him very well as he had to do some convincing for the slim cut. Why does your husband prefer oversized clothing? Terribly unflattering.

Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon.

MH

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/131572952@N02/20054453279/in/dateposted-friend/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy my semi-skilled photo manip talents!! (August 2, 2015: Sorry this is in black and white now--tumblr ate all my photo uploads and this was the only copy of this one I could find.)


End file.
